Broken Contract
by Akylae
Summary: Rescued from the brink after years of abuse, the good doctor struggles to reclaim his former life. Inspired by DIY Sheep’s 'Contract' and 'Darkness'. Not for the faint-hearted.
1. Lost and Found

Standard disclaimers apply, made for practice not profit.  
Please review, constructive criticism welcome.

**BROKEN CONTRACT**

**Lost and Found**

_Scorponok  
Transformers OS  
Steve Jablonsky_

Thunderous shock waves shake the ground beneath him like a fervent bass, drawing him form a restless unconsciousness to the reality of cold air and concrete wet with the swamp of waste. Icy needles parade over his skin while fire rages through sore airways. The thumping marks a dozen or so strident footsteps, too many and too fast for something regular. Curling tighter as much as bound limbs allow, chains brush against hands and feet. He makes himself small in the corner, muscles screaming of cramps induced by immobility and lack of water.

Jagged vibrations mark the opening of doors, and like a trained dog he responds, struggling to lift the upper body against the ache in his back, body weak and slow. The steam of gruel is missing from his nostrils, hope of food and fluids replaced by expectation of pain.

Absence of footfalls makes worst his growing fear. Fingertips make contact with his shoulder and he jerks away on reflex, desperate thrashing pointless against a swarm of strong arms snaking around every part of him, holding him in place.

His cheek falls to smooth skin stretched over a collar bone, small hands holding him by the jaw and temples as their delicate fingers gently brush through messy hair and beard. Something about the action soothes his terrified mind. Distant memory returns bringing realization - A woman, the first one in years, holding him close, her words just faint vibrations of chest and repeated gusts over his scalp. In his mind he imagines Omma's cooing voice behind the looping mantra of comfort.

Gently he is shifted to one side as two pairs of hands reach for the too tight binds, flesh exposed to dirt puffy with infection and sensitive to the lightest touch. A thin jet of lukewarm fluid strikes the mangled limbs, washing him of the sickening mess of feces and urine. His face crumples in pain as scabs joining skin to metal fragment, cuts and scrapes reopening to a new trickle of blood. Sterile compresses cover his injuries, fastened by gauze and elastic nets.

Strong arms wrap themselves around his sides, his own slunk over broad shoulders. He winces as the body weight adds pressure to cracked ribs, foreign arm moving down to an uninjured part of torso. Lifted off, his legs dangle uselessly, joints twisted at unnatural angles. Knees stretched out of prolonged kneel make him issue a faint groan in protest. Another pair of hands raises his thighs to take the strain off worn joints. More water is used to wash his calves and feet before shackled ankles are bandaged as well.

The trio maneuvers him on the cool plastic stretcher where restraints are strapped tight around forearms and chest, launching a panic attack that grips him as hope of rescue crumples under flashbacks of mock executions strobing in his mind. More binds appear over limbs, his heart a jackhammer against the sternum and a pulsing clog in his throat. A soft, fibrous, wet ball is dabbed at the crook of his arm, iodine pungent in his nose.

He crumples at the thought of falling for another cruel trick but deafness spares him the humiliation of hearing his own pathetic whimpers. Sharp metal meets vein bulge, terror squeezing eyes tighter still as he tenses, bracing for the inevitable. Lungs jump start to a furious pace, pumping like the bellows of a forge.

His heart friezes at the feel of needle rupturing skin, even before he is injected. A tidal wave of regret swells in him as images of dear ones being assaulted phase one into the other in his last seconds. _'Mm sorry.'_ He whispers hoarsely, words lost to the silence like a beam of light on dark velvet.

Freezing metal on chest precedes the searing pain flashing through his every fiber and he gasps for air, arched like a taut bow. Persistent dull ache fills his torso in its trail after he slams hard to the stretcher's surface. A faint pulse throbs against someone's index and thumb on both his carotids. The stranger pulls away in time for a veritable pile of wool to be draped over his shivering body, its weight and warmth triggering a primal relaxing response. Exhausted from stress beyond comprehension he surrenders to the mental void, even if it be a one way trip.

**...**


	2. Welcome Back

**Welcome Back**

_My name is Lincoln_  
_The Island OST  
Steve Jablonsky_

He awakes immersed in warmth seeping though his every pore, pain held at bay by waves of morphine, drip… drip… dripping into veins. Soft feathery down is a cloud he floats in, direct sun a blessing over his face, chest and hands. Two eyes open to its rays, opaque grayish orbs soaking in the uniform stain of colorless, faint light. Tingling in his nose is a mix of iodine tincture and cleaning agents, the unmistakable odor of hospitals he now loves more than ever. The undercurrent of wood furnish places him not in some random prison ward but in one specific place – _his_ hospital.

The constant, deafening, ringing pressure in the ears and black on deeper black shadows have followed him to a paradise he knows is real, for illusions preserved his senses. Leather restraints over bandaged wrists add another reassuring clue, for only in dreams would he have been immediately released. Even the discomfort of a tube in the meager remains of his manhood is a welcome sensation, attesting to the fact that more treatment is provided than he thought of.

Not a second later thought of rescue of brings anguish, a snippet of the contract running in his mind like a broken record.

_Clause five, sub clause one – Attempt, successful or otherwise, of the below signed, to evade, delay or temporarily suspend the penance, in an way, will result in the termination of one individual listed under clause one._

Tears burn their way to his eyes unbidden as he tries not to think of who will pay for this pointless, misplaced compassion, when the black shit-hole of the lawyer sucks him back into the abyss. He knows he won't handle it if they do, not now, not after knowing he was out, and certainly not after another death. If only they weren't so damn connected, if only he could remain -

Heart stops in his throat at the memory of the next sub clause.

_Attempt, successful or otherwise, of the below signed, to permanently end the penance, in any way, will result with the termination of all individuals listed under clause one._

Bound, his fists slam weakly into the mattress, knowing one or all of his own are walking dead. The thought alone is a tempting invitation to catatonia, except that too is considered termination of contract from his side. He slams the bed harder, frustrated that he hopes for more torture. Guilt joins in for wishing his father dead, because that of all outcomes would hurt least.

A forest floods his mind with scents of oak and jasmine, familiar aftershave and perfume.

Jimmy and Lisa, his surrogate siblings, jerk the bed a little as they lean on opposite rails. They take each of his wrecked hands in one of their own, holding them down until he stills, other hands reaching for his shoulder and hair respectively.

Where once he found it awkward, he now welcomes the affectionate contact of other people, a man starved of companionship, desperate for any kind of connection. He turns his head to the stroke of slender, manicured fingers, closed eyes pressing into her smooth-skinned palm, rubbing runaway tears against its heel as his upper lip begins to tremble.

Jimmy draws an upward facing arrow over bare, scared sternum, and a square just underneath.

He frowns momentarily, but recognizing the house pictogram, turn's to Jimmy with a questioning expression. Despite the loss of voice, the action communicates his understanding, his awareness of identity.

A serpentine is drawn next, dot punctuating the question mark.

Swallowing hard against fear of failure, he opens his mouth a few times only to close it again, a fish on dry land. Beads of sweat bud across his forehead and upper lip as he hesitates to speak into silence.

With bravado he says _"He-"_, friezing as the word is sucked into nothingness, the breath of air like a razorblade slash up his throat. Desperation provides another method of communication. _'He'll kill you.' _He mouths.

One by one the letters _H E I S D E A D _are written on his chest. _T H O M P S O N W A S K I L L E D_

Secure in the finality and certainty of rescue without consequences, he gives himself to the swell of rapture. Deep, fast heaves sing his freedom, heart playing percussions to the shaky dance of limbs as tears of joy flow welcome down gaunt cheek bones. The two stay with him through it all and long after, him feeling Lisa's last brush of knuckles over clean shaven cheek as a peaceful sleep descends.


	3. Public Exposure

**Public Exposure**

_Sacrifice  
The Insider OST  
Lisa Gerard_

House occupies himself with playing melodies from memory, careful not to make a sound in his deafness, not to alert the guards.

A new, unknown body odor fills the room and he wonders at the person's identity, jerking away from a sudden touch of some stranger's hand and his own. Head turns to the visitor's side, than down as the fleece lined restraints are undone, dressing lifted and wrists spun around for an inspection of sutures.

Before leather belts can be replaced, he grabs the stranger's hand, androgen in built but decidedly male in utilitarian maintenance. Uninterrupted, he moves up the rough fabric of a repeatedly bleached lab coat, over a starched shirt collar and silky tie, to a round jaw with perturbing chin, smooth shaven cheeks and long bangs. Recognizing the former fellow, his mouth quirks to a shadow of a smile, wane one mirrored on the Aussie's face.

House struggles against grating tendons to form a victory sign, barely holding the hand up in view. A few seconds later he transforms the gesture to a pointer or gun, conspicuously aimed at his belly.

Chase feels over his abdomen, flinching at the other man's wince. The intensivist rolls House to recovery position, legs pushed up against chest.

Knowing what will follow, House grabs a pillow and curls around it, evidence of abuse to be revealed the second his gown is maneuvered out of way. He can sense Chase's shock by the shaking of fabric the young doctor still holds above his back, shame mounting with each moment he is being stared at.

Whatever feelings occupy Chase's mind, he is considerate of a very private House, proceeding immediately with treatment, applying a generous dose of gel before threading the tube in.

Greg's bowels roil in response to the jet of lukewarm fluid, teeth sunk into the pillow. He breathes deep from the diaphragm, stomach bloated and withdrawn in time with the rinse and suction, an attempt to speed up the painful treatment, hasten its end. At least there is no stench to remind of the cesspool that was his cell.

Chase spreads one hand between Greg's shoulders, the other snuck between gown and pillow, fisted for House to push against. In wide, rolling circles it moves around Greg's navel, massaging the cramps away until the treatment is completed. Gloved fingers return to gingerly feel around damaged flesh, searching for abnormalities on internal organs and mercifully finding none.

The slightest accidental rub on sensitive tissue triggers in House a reflex response, physical pleasure bringing only anguish. He clutches the pillow tighter, face pressed deep into its down to muffle sniffled moans. But he can't hide the way his torso tenses with each strangled cry.

Inspecting hand retreats, the other landing lightly on his shoulder.

At this the dam falls apart, violent, hiccuppy shudders racking him as raspy wails release his misery.

All Chase can offer is his presence, waiting out the storm of emotions with an occasional rubb on the shoulder as House cries himself drained.

Numb, he does not move a muscle as Chase applies rubber bands at the roots of pathological growths, face blank and blind eyes staring out devoid of spirit. House takes what little comfort he can from the fact there will soon be no outer physical evidence of that particular abuse, one small unwanted reminder less.

Finally Chase covers him up and a moment later his hands come over Greg's, guiding them into something like a degenerated prayer clasp.

House doesn't even think about mocking the gesture or protesting, humor and pride long beaten out of him, their place taken by resigned submission, even voice carved out. Instead, there is some kind of solace from it, its intention at least.

The two stand so for a long while, until Chase gives him a light squeeze to warn of his departure or perhaps ask permission for the same.

House responds with a quick nod, reassuring the younger man he is better, and returns to the music in his head.


	4. Kindness of Strangers

**Kindness of Strangers**

_Euphrates  
Songs for Orchestra and Choir  
Immediate Music_

A coughing fit tears him from pleasantries of sleep, struggling to breathe between spasms. Someone's knuckles press at his sternum, painful gasp saving him from suffocation. Raspy pants reverberate through slushy lungs, dry throat on fire. His lips come around a plastic ring, soothing fog sprayed in strained airways to ease his breathing.

A pair of mature female hands stuffs the pillow under his shoulders, head falling back and forehead held down. He feels the cool of a thin metal ring on her fourth finger, a simple wedding ring the kind a construction worker could afford. Age, built, class and marital status about right, he makes a wild, hopeful guess that it is Brenda, asking for transfer to ICU to care for an old sparring partner in snark.

Cool glass of a pipette makes contact with his nostril, leaving him frozen with shock, breathing suspended as his mind crashes back to captivity. The smell and sting of acid flashes from memory, eyes burning dimmer, cruel comments drowning in a quiet, high pitched whine.

With little success he hides the mounting fear, the prospect of losing yet another sense too horrid to bare. Through sickly wheezing a voiceless, broken keen escapes his control to feed the guards' amusement, their strokes a perverted mockery of compassion.

Fluid drips in, eyes shut tight under overwhelming sense of loss. Absence of agony leaves him bewildered, bitter decongestant taking him further in the past, decades ago, to harmless childhood colds.

Gentle fingers pull away the gown folds, careful in rubbing a warm balm over bruised ribs. Aromatic eucalyptus vapors break through mucus that is keeping him from satisfying lungfuls, reassuring the sense of smell is only temporary dulled, not lost altogether. Sweet, herbal mist joins in the fight and he takes a deep breath, inhaling its healing moisture.

The bed head rises to near vertical pose and takes him with it, another fluffed pillow added for back support. Nape pushed slightly forward to level his head, warm metal makes contact with slightly parted lips in advance of honeyed chamomile. The tea is a hot salve in his mouth, and he forces himself to swallow despite the pained cramp traveling stomach-wards. A sip later and the cup tilts away, returning as soon as he takes a deep breath in and lets it go.

He recognizes the pattern as first step of being weaned back to solids, predicting juice, milk shakes and baby vegetable mush in the coming days. Sip by sip the tea smoothes out the sensation of grit, making him much better by the time the cup is empty.

Even so small an effort leaves him drained, head lolling forward. Eased to supine pose, he feels bags of hundred degrees saline stuffed along his ribs and neck, their heat seeping into him. A couple of blankets are added, covering him from head to toe, overlapping in multiple layers. Adrift on the sea of warmth, House sinks asleep like an anchor.


	5. Surprise Visit

**Surprise Visit**

_J'attendes__  
Black Hawk Down  
Denez Priget_

Lost in thought House is oblivious to the arrival of people, noticing it only when the whiffs of their mixed scents grow thick about him, a featureless pungent bog.

The bed moves as people make contact with it from all sides, bouncing eerily similar to the ring of guards shoving him around. Claws resting in his lap clutch the blanket to hide their quivering, the feel of rough wool serving as anchor against the tide of memories.

Dropping of rails gives him a solid shake up, and what was once a cage now feels more like the toppling of protective buttresses. Feeling himself trapped between people he knows nothing of, anxiety grips at his chest, a hollow weight in his stomach. His face a mask of anxious confusion as he looks around, expecting an explanation from whoever is there.

Something squared and leathery, like a wallet but not quite, is placed on his hands and he feels around on edge, finding a shield of insanely ornate shape inside it. He thumbs over the metallic surface, calloused fingertips traveling over engraved designation - 'Federal Bureau of Investigation.'

The very fact of authority makes him revert to submisive, obedience forced into him by years of maltreatment.

He feels one hand slide back to his chest and the other slip under the nape. Cradled in strong fingers his head is lifted until the whole upper body falls forward, supported by the palm splayed over his front.

Still bound, his wrists are tugged by restraints shortened to minimal length, pulling his arms down and out to the bed's sides, His heart shifts up a gear as the absence of fabric from ribs reminds just how vulnerable he is, upward facing palms trembling flaccid on the mattress edge.

'_Resisting will only make things worse, Gregory.'_ The lawyer's words of advice bubble to surface, tasting of poisoned honey.

The gown knot is untied to reveal his bare front, a network of cuts showing, map of nonexistent city carved into skin. Humiliation mounts a heavy weight upon infirm shoulders, posture sinking steadily. Two men with rubber gloves grab hold of his shouders to keep him from keeling over. Totally uneventful next few seconds stretch time to an unbearable crawl, animal instinct to curl up in some hole or shrink back to his shell taking over his thoughts.

Light comes in brief flickers, nausea swelling from mere thought of his ordeal being recorded on film, to be paraded before yet more foreigners. The knowledge that some will inevitably leak to press for voyeuristic entertainment robs House of what little crumbles of privacy not even the lawyer could take form him.

House forces himself to think of the benefits the evidence will bring, but the plus side pales in comparison.

Arms maneuvered out sleeves, the gown falls over haggard skin stretched on a skeletal frame. Eyes shut tightly at the thought of strangers seeing lines of text tattooed across his back, his personal damnation imprinted between layers of angry welts.

Slightest touch of latex at the spot between spine and left shoulder blade feels like a stab to the gut, because there is only one thing of particular interest back there, the name of Alison Cameron, written in red ink as warning, but acting like constant reminder of failure to protect one's own.

Fainter still are new flickers of reflected light, contract itself recorded.

Not a moment too soon, the gown is replaced from where it stands hanging from his elbows, draped over perturbing shoulders. The pat he is given on their departure does little to undo the loss of privacy, but stirs in him desire, volition, ambition. His patient endurance tried and tested, House begins plotting his recovery.


	6. Talk to Me

**Talk to me**

_Eptescius  
Batman Begins OST  
Hans Zimmer_

Chicken soup still oily in mouth, he licks the lips clean and smacks contently, all needs provided for. Lisa's scent fills the room so he turns to the shade lighter gray that marks the hallway side of ICU, small smile given in greeting. Short squeeze of hands later, she helps him sit up before moving the warmed up stethoscope over his chest to listen in on the passing pneumonia, basic check up transparent justification for a visit.

Examining the sutures gives her excuse to loosen his binds, extended length providing for more maneuvering space. Lisa guides his hand a little way out, bulging knuckles meeting her sitting-level face. She moves his fingers apart as much as injuries allow, thumb on chin and fingers over lips. Her own fall in a wide arch over his scruffy face, thumb on chin, index on lips, middle one on cheek, ring finger on jaw. He gulps hard as the pinky makes contact with the wide scar tissue running diagonally over the Adam's apple.

Her features move under his touch, House guessing it a 'Hey' of 'Hi'. He swallows in preparation of testing his own voice. _"Do you hear me?" _Whispered words are just a tremble against her fingertip.

Large smile erupts on her face from lips to eyes as she nods enthusiastically, single tear making its way to his finger, and a breath he didn't notice holding escapes with a giggle. An idea dawns, urging from him a momentary cunning grin. A language is a language is a language, and he always had a way with them. Raising the other hand he moves between random hand gestures: thumbs up and down, okay, one, two, three…

Lisa looks away, his knuckles sliding to her throat to feel strong vibrations of shouting. Settled to a comfortable sitting pose, he allows his arms placed on the portable table, waiting.

Generical soap announces a down-to-earth person, hammer-strong fists sliding under his half open palms. His fingers line up with the stranger's as much as possible, bony forearms resting on muscular counterparts.

"_Alphabet."_ House requests.

The man moves through a series of gestures while House lip-syncs with a focused frown.

"_Repeat." _He asks, consolidating newly acquired knowledge._ "Again."_

House nods. _"Enough. Test me."_

Random signs appear under hand and he mouths in time, the process repeated over and over until House nods enough.

"_Numbers."_

The man shows him ten predictable signs.

"_Got it."_ House nods, swallows. _"Your name?"_ The question feels like sandpaper.

"_See … el … eye … are …" _House spells silently, the word written down in big block letter in his mind's eye. _"… en … see- "_ Just before the last letter he connects the dots, summoning the last reserve to greet the man, no longer stranger. "Nice to meet you, Clarence." he near mouths, rusty voice still sore to use.

S A M E H E R E D O C

Suddenly House squints, mouth slightly parted and lower lip atremble with a stifled yawn. Clarnece moves his right to a handshake, grip firm counterpoint Greg's dead-fish hold. Table removed, Lisa grasps Greg's wrist, than moves her hand down into his claw, imitating Clarence.

S W E E T D R E A M S She fingerspells before leaving.

Alone, House repeats the lesson, fingers twitching in attempt of limited signing until a shallow nap takes over.


	7. Sound of Silence

**Sound of Silence**

_Jade  
The Rock OST  
Hans Zimmer_

House breathes an anxious sigh, waiting for the scheduled exam and operation. He recognizes Chase and Lisa by odor, and soon feels hands in latex manipulate his earlobe, forceps reaching in to fish out a dry cotton tuff, and he forces himself not to think of sharp objects like pens. The stroking of her thumb over his hand is a distraction House is grateful for, taking his mind off the orthoscope diving in for a close-up.

The instrument gone, Chase writes OR on his chest, and the tug of inertia starts their trip to surgery, light fading in and out as they pass walls and windows. A swarm of hands keeps brushing at both his covered legs and arms draped protectively over belly, hospital staff forming a gauntlet of well-wishers. After the last touch has ceased, House sinks deeper into the mattress at the launch of the elevator pod, jumping a little on arrival in surgeon territory. The centrifuge of sharp turns and door-opening slams all help in following the path through well-trotted halls.

The sheets underneath him move, and he makes pretense to dead weight as people shift him to the operating table and prep for the procedure. Head turned to the right, a number of liquids comes and goes from the root of his earlobe: viscous cold of ultrasound gel the round probe presses through on the way to his skull and beyond; wiped off with disposable paper towel to make way for a foamy lather. Hosue swallows hard as the sharp blade shaves the patch of skin, weak sedative provided to ease his hair-trigger nerves. Finally a pungent disinfectant is applied.

House nods go-ahead.

Sponge rings his nose and mouth, the smell of anesthetic dunking him in lightheaded haze. For a reason he can't quite tell it leaves him unnerved, so he shakes the thing off violently.

'Local.' He grates out, lungfuls of clear air returning his focus.

Oxygen canula taped to nose, anesthesiologist administers big drops into his ear canal, numbing all sensation almost instantly. An injection at the center of the disinfected area soon does the same with the outside.

Various robotic probes dip in and out of the keyhole incisions, the whole thing merely an endless string of vague, shifting pressure, in out and behind. Discomforting pressure in the depths of his ear fades with each venture of surgical instruments removing pieces of abnormally healed tissue. He swallows hard as the half-dissolved hearing bones are removed, a deep sigh of regret easing out like a ghost. A tiny, superficial patch of skin is peeled off the small cartilage protrusion guarding the ear duct, than over the gaping hole in the drum, sandwiched between adhesives.

The same is repeated on the other side, but this time he falls asleep in the middle of it as the absolute silence, void even of annoying ring and whining pressure, leaves him too unnerved to cope right then.


	8. Play it Again

**Play it Again**

_Fort Walton  
The Rock OST  
Hans Zimmer_

Lightest of pats startles House awake and he shrinks to semi-fetal position, head tucked between shoulders and brows high with worry. The reassuring squeeze comes as an immediate apology, and he relaxes upon regaining bearings.

Neutral cologne is oddly familiar, yet he can't place the man anywhere until a pair of index and middle fingers appears next to insides of his palms. Medical gears screech a slow start in the back of his mind, cobwebs of disuse torn asunder. Recognizing the basic neurology test, he grips the fingers while grinning a greeting to Forman.

House turns to stone as the former fellow parts his eyelids, desperately clutching the blanket, an anchor to reality against the tsunami of flashbacks. Uniform dark becomes slightly lighter, seamless silver stain floating side to side and he follows with delay. The pen light disappears and reappears a few times before vanishing altogether. Ripples of black on gray bounce from side to side as a hand is waved close to his face. House figures the damage to his sight was limited to cornea and maybe lens, intact retina keeping the promise of eventual sight.

A cold metal cylinder is pressed into the groove between nose and mouth, fogged eyes snapping open with surprise as a dull tone resounds in his ears, source indiscernible. Another strike and he knows it is the tuning fork echoing through his skull, possibility of total recovery still there.

House walks the high tightrope of hope and caution, unwilling to set himself up for disappointment yet unable to cease from wishing for normalcy. Knowing there is a human safety net available should he fall allows him to dream.

Bud speakers a size too big press against the bones of his skull at the ear canal.

…a long tremble fades in and out … infused with an even timing beat…

His brow furrows thoughtful.

… a different tremble appears, an interference pattern forming…

… in the middle of it the beat splinters into complexity, halves drawn out…

Percusions?

… the base line doubled by a stuttering timer …

Rhythm…?

… faint spikes strike counterpoint in a whole other rhythm.

… something continuous and rapid, like rattling but not quite ….

MUSIC!

Rising and swelling with more and more instruments, a toneless symphony of speeds, durations, multiplicities and intensity. And his head lurches back with an ecstatic 'Yesss!', fists pumping the main beat on air drums. Laughter so intense it makes no sound takes him to cloud nine


	9. To the Grave

**To the Grave**

_Hymn  
Songs for Orchestra and Choir  
Immediate Music_

Arms languidly draped over rails, House slaps a complicated beat against the plastic, wasting time now that most his days are not spent sleeping. He is interrupted by the appearance of odors: Lisa's jasmine and a new one – pine, like the one found in cars, its user probably a crisp, clear-cut man.

Lisa takes him by the hand and shoulder of one arm, spelling FBI in his grasp. Pine Man places his fingertips against Greg's in an offer of a handshake and House extends his arm to take it, albeit with half-hearted reluctance. The hands are not much tended to but not rough either, befitting someone who has not weathered the elements or physical work.

'_Agent wants to talk.'_ She conveys.

House nods.

'_What happened the night you … were arrested?_

House takes a deep breath. _"Where's Thompson's lawyer?"_

'_Latin America.'_

House shakes his head.

'_No what? Not answering?'_

He nods.

'_Why?'_

He holds the index finger up as sign for 'one'._ "Any attempt, successful or not, of informing any third party to the existence of this contract, the parties involved or the activities hereby mentioned; will result in the termination of -."_

'_Thompson is dead.' She cuts him off. 'Contract is off.'_

House shakes his head. _"Lawyer will stay back if I don't accuse him. Wouldn't be worth the risk to punish me further. If I do… Clause two gives him the right to continue penalizing me in Thompson's name."_

'_Lawyer already involved.'_

"_For words on paper only." _He frowns at her.

'_What else did he do?'_

House is silent on that.

'_Your testimony is key. You were a zombie when the murder happened. Even abused, its plausible that you snapped when she pushed for answers you weren't allowed to give. The judge will want to blame someone for her death. Feds need an alternative scenario.'_

House shakes his head. _"Can't. Sorry."_

'_They could decide to send you back.'_

House gives her a cunning grin. _"If they do you'd never sign me out. Too guilty."_

Lisa does not respond.

He turns to where the agent last stood. _"Don't care if I'm stuck here for the rest of my life, sir. I'm home."_

Everything is still for a long while as House waits for them to give up. The agent gives him a patt on the shoulder before leaving.

When the other man pulls away he goes to say something but pauses. _"Tell the judge…"_ He sighs, searching for words.

"_What I've been through, the only way to survive it was to not be there. Not really. I slept a lot. Dreamt I was outside. Free for sixteen hours, tortured for eight. It's a good arrangement. The down side…" _He huffs._ "I still expect to wake up in the hole. Whatever is decided… Prison 's in my head now, I'll never be out. You might as well leave me be."_

House turns to Lisa, who stays with him. Guilted into sharing his burden of suffering she strokes his upper arm comfortingly. Knowing the hesitance is only to selfishly enjoy the tiny indulgence, House does not absolve her of the guilt nor does he request that she stop walowing.


	10. Speak No Evil

**Speak no Evil**

_Corynohinus  
Batman Begins OST  
James Newton Howard_

Breath of warm, stale air, blown through a drinking straw, caresses him like a tropical breeze, sensation so different from any he experienced in captivity that it wakes him without the ubiquitous panic attack. House picks up the agents arboreal odor and slowly unfurls form fetal position with a pained hiss. A glance at the windows makes no difference in the amount of ambient light, clouds blocking the sun and bringing extra ache to his barometer bones.

_"Call for Ingrid." _He speaks through a groan, rolling himself on the back. Arm pressed under body weight protests in tingles. House waits for what feels like forever until Ingrid's nail-less finger draws a question mark on his chest.

"_Constant global six."_ He explains. _"Localized eights when moving. Start here. "_ Right hand rises.

Small, deceptively strong hands start working his muscles, Greg near melting as she dismantles a hot spot.

"_Agent?"_ House calls out to the man, other hand searching blindly.

The man places his hand in Greg's.

"_Call a translator."_

'_Don't need one.'_ The Agent spells.

"_You're a quick learner."_ House smiles a bit. _"Why are you here?"_

'_We really need your testimony.'_

House sighs. _"Please…"_

'_Don't mention the lawyer by name or occupation, don't mention him at all.'_

He pulls the hand back, fingers fidgeting nervously. "Ingrind…"

She pats his calf understandingly.

House mimes drinking. The younger man helps him sit up and Greg grabs the rails to stay upright, head still hung forward. A straw makes contact with his lips, sugar-loaded orange juice with no acid to aid his recovery. House sips greedily. Pulling away he releases a nervous huff.

"_They waited for me at hospital parking. Three men, two muscles. Drove me home. In the trunk. Place was unlocked. Alison on the bed, sitting. Bound. Gagged. No sound. Neighbors not alerted. Binds oddly loose. Two more muscle inside. One with gun to her head. Other took my cane. He had gloves. Binds made sense. Plan was to make it look I snapped. I pushed him. Non-muscle kicked my thigh. Paralyzed me with pain. Pulled me by the hair. On my knees. Gloved muscle brought the cane up. I looked away. Switch blade against my temple. Non-muscle threatened to cut my lids off. I looked. Alison scared, forgiving. Me sorry."_

He gulps.

"_Blow to the temple. She dropped unconscious. Another three at the crown. Fatal. Nothing I could do. They held me down another five minutes. Just in case. Until she- …until the body paled."_

House takes a long, quivering breath, in and out.

"_They shoved the cane in my arms, Blood everywhere. Don't know how long I stood there. Called the cops when I came to. Admitted."_

The agent grabs House by the upper arm, prying his hand of the rail to continue the conversation._ 'Why?'_

He signs C1, than asks for a drink again.

Having helped him, the agent returns to the role of interrogator. _'Why did they kill her?'_

"_I was curious." _He gives a 'duh?' expression._ "Clauses three and four forbade investigation into who tortured me or why."_

'_Do you know now?'_

"_Thompson visited me in jail. I recognized him as the father of a patient I failed to save. She had a hereditary disease. It could have been treated if diagnosed sooner. He took it like I killed his girl and blamed him for it."_

'_How did you escape the first time?'_

"_I didn't. That's a breach of contract. I just coulnt keep up with the other inmates. The limp."_

'_You robed a store. Why?'_

"_I was starving. Dying of thirst."_

'_Why not surrender immediately?'_

"_Beating was more likely than sustenance."_

'_You were beaten anyway.'_

House sighed._ "I was outside the walls, outside their control, full, warm, not in pain. I knew it couldn't last but… Sir, that was my last supper. I knew after that I was as good as dead."_

'_The second escape?'_

He shrugged._ "Two guards came to my cell. Told me to shower, shave, change to civilian clothes. I was driven in a window-less truck. Dropped in the middle of New York and told to admit a double homicide. Doing it would change nothing. Not doing it would result in at least one death. Easiest thing I ever did."_

'_Records say you were executed, what happened?'_

"_I was strapped and given anesthesia. Other two injections were saline. I woke in the old solitary – the hole, in the closed-down prison section. I'd rather not talk about what followed."_

Holding House's torso sandwiched between his splayed palms, the agent returns him to the bed. _'Thank you.' _He spells, than shakes Greg's hand respectfully, clasping with both hands.

House places his own over the younger man's, giving him a small grateful squeeze. As the two separate, House adds _"Get Ingrid. Please."_


	11. Breaking Point

**Breaking Point**

_Escape  
Plunkett & MacLane  
Craig Armstrong_

Sweat covers Greg's face and chest as he strains to push down on Clarence's strong hands, face contorted with breath-held effort. Suddenly the giant stops resisting, House's hands dropping to the mattress as he heaves back to relaxation. Knocking on the side rail gets his attention just as a piece of bumpy paper is eased over his hand.

Calloused fingertips pass over the Brail text, studious expression on Greg's face as he goes through the legal document full of big words written in impersonal grammar form. At the phrase 'full pardon' his heart skips a beat, eyes wide and brows high. He swallows a huge lump, not expecting to be so impacted by the verdict. Euphoricaly he flies through the rest of the text, mentioning all medical expenses covered by the state, and a major compensation in the form of Thompson's possessions.

Male hands reach for the binds to untie him completely and all House can do is stand mesmerized at the feeling of free wrists. Lisa steps up to engulf him in a congratulatory hug, his hands still in the air around her as Clarence gives him a light jab on the shoulder. Moment's later she finger-spells _'You have visitors.'_ in his free hand.

The room fills with deeply ingrained scents of earthen aftershave and lavender perfume, his vitals skyrocketing at the feminine scent, heartrending disappointment crowning his mind. At the jostle of bed he sinks deeper under the covers, head turned away and hyperventilating. A frail, old hand clasps his cheek with loving tenderness, contact making nightmarish thoughts all too real.

"_NOOO!!"_ House screams despite the bruning in his throat, arching to writhe up the bed and escape unwanted contact of wrinkled and scarred skin. _"NO! No. Why? No-ho-ho."_ Words are inconsistent blubbering as he struggles to keep from her touch. House senior pins him down by the shoulders, Greg unable to fend him off.

Herculean hands grab hold of his flaying ones, stilling them in their strong grip. Parents backed off, House stops resisting. As he lies trembling in bed, Clarence gets a chance to maneuver his hands into Greg's grasp.

'_What's wrong, Doc?' _The man signs, the need to translate the new conversation method forcing House to think rather than feel and providing cool down time.

"_Not real."_ The whisper is barely audible, House fearing the guard's revenge for his earlier outburst of shouting. _"Nothing real." _The words cut like shards of broken glass .

'_Why?'_

"_Too good."_ House speaks more to himself than anyone else. _"Knew it was too good."_

'_How come?'_

"_She's dead."_ He whimpers like a child guiltily admitting a mistake. _"They said she died. Said he came to see me, tell me my death sentence killed her. I Killed her."_ His rant dies in sniffled tears.

'_Doc…'_ Clarence gets his attention. _'…they lied.'_

Bone deep guilt melts from House, shaky smile stretching across his face against teeth sunk into lower lip. A snort escapes, exploding to hysterical laughter at the thought of actually believing his tormentors. That the personal truism of 'everybody lies' never occurred to him in relation to the lawyer leaves House wondering what remained of his old self if even the bullshit detector failed. Laughing to tears, he feels body wracking sobs fight their way in.

Large hands reach carefully under his armpits, lifting him up like a helpless infant as he takes hold of broad shoulders in fear of falling. Forehead leant on Clarence's burly chest, House feeds the growing stain on the man's scrubs. But the orderly turns him around to face Blythe and John, three tiny chips in her ring stroking his cheek bone.

Letting go of Clarence House nigh falls over her, thin arms wrapped round small form, fists gripping the silky fabric of her blouse. "_They hurt me mom."_ He moans into the curve of her neck. _"They hurt me so bad."_

Blythe keeps patting his upper back, other hand stroking the length of his spine. Even John makes physical contact, firm grip on his son's shoulder reassuring of future safety.


	12. Watch Over Me

**Watch Over Me  
**

_Finding Beauty  
As if to Nothing  
Craig Armstrong_

Eyes snap open to pitch black of night, chest heaving in abject terror as he finds himself desperately clutching the blanket. Sheets and gown are drenched in a warm fluid coating his legs, nose drowning in foul stench. Gulping through quivers he waits, fear of a budding breakdown worsening his distress. A touch startles him to a jerk, but he quickly calms, rapid nods communicating recovery.

A tug on the covers urges him to let go, and the laundry is pulled away, exposing wet limbs to cool night air. Memories of repeated frostbites and butcher-style amputation of gangrenous toes make his heart race.

Gown knot undone, the folds fall away and he finds himself nude before the stranger, humiliated. Settled to one side, he is rolled back and forth, arms maneuvered out of sleeves to remove the dirty clothes. Recognizng Clarence soothes him a little, but soon it changes back, for lying naked and cold in own filth throws House to the final days of captivity. Cooperation shot to shreds as he believes the man to be one of the guards.

Undeterred, the giant returns to cautiously grasp his shoulders, not pinning House down but not letting him move either. Fingers curled around perturbing bones are still for the longest time, waiting with endless patience for the fear to die down.

Somewhat relaxed, he finds himself on a plastic sheet, lukewarm lather sponged over deeply scarred thighs and shrunken privates. Head arched backward in reflex avoidance of eye contact, he blinks intensely to fight back the tears. Tapped dry by a large towel, he is again rolled around, new bedding and gown provided.

Griping the rails he sits up, shy fingertips traveling the length of the giant's arms, taking in the size and built, over broad shoulders and burly chest, up the thick neck to a round face. Full lips appear under his touch, a flat nose and deep set eyes below arching brows. His mind provides the dark complexion and warm brown eyes from memory of other blacks, the open face crowned in short curls, undoubtedly black as night.

A nod later House allows himself to be dressed and tucked under layers of hospital blankets to help the wasted body keep warm. Voice unsteady, a short squeeze on the giant's hand is all the thanks House can communicate. With the same gesture the man replies before leaving.

House lies awake for what feels like eternity, no method of telling time available. Whenever odd thoughts stray into shallow napping he awakes with a jerk coming out of the blue. After three startled rousings a rough male hand clasps his own, old but strong. Neither of the two Houses make an effort to communicate.

Lengthy fingers curl in the grip of stocky ones, which do not let go until he drifts to an uneasy sleep. And every time Greg begins to grimace and stir in a dream turning bad, John helps him out of it with a reassuring squeeze.


	13. Baby Steps

**Baby Steps**

_Return to Willowbrook  
Songs for Orchestra and Choir  
Immediate Music_

Morning arrives with the aromas of warm milk and a mixture of fruits, stirring House from a dream of father-son camping trips long past. The older House pulls away as the table is wheeled in with a jerk, mouth watering goodness tantalizingly close. Bed angled, Blythe helps the nurse sit Greg upright.

Before either of them can proceed to spoon feeding, he holds a hand up, demanding they stop. Feeling for the table Greg grasps the far end and pulls himself up, body propped on elbows, face hovering above the tray. Shifting weight to one arm, he frees the other for reconnaissance of assorted food in rough-surfaced plastic dishes: sliced green apples on a plate, a large bowl of cereal and a rather warm mug of rose hip tea.

Hands limited in motion, Greg grabs the spoon like a small child or uncultured hick, maneuvering the first load over unsteadily. He munches through a mouthful of fruit loops with a borderline idiotic grin, satisfied with the small success and favored food.

The task is tiresome but rewarding, and by the time he empties the dish, House wonders if he hasn't spent more calories than he just consumed. Allowing himself to slowly loose balance, he leans back into the mountain of pillows, hands resting on the tray.

House forgoes the fork in favor of fingers, taking out the apple slices one at a time, their taste and texture cleaning the pallet of porridge-like leftovers. Before he knows it the plate is empty, leaving only tea to finish off.

Mug held between hands, he lets the fluid's heat seep into fracture-riddled fingers, erasing their persistent discomfort. Blowing between sips he takes his time drinking. Almost half an hour later, if the increase in luminance can be trusted, he finally puts the mug down, never feeling so satisfied with a task independently completed.

Just as he feels a post-meal nap coming, Lisa arrives in a cloud of floral perfume.

"_Hey."_ He greets with a languid smile, no longer twitchy at initial physical contact.

'_How are you?_'

The inquiry earns her a shrug. _"Four. The weather is nice."_

'_Not what I meant.'_

"_Oh."_ He looks down blushing.

'_House, Do you hear anything?'_

He nods. _"Things I can hear through the skull."_

'_Like?'_

"_Pressure change from yawning or swallowing. Teeth striking one another when biting or chewing."_

'_Your voice?'_

"_Barely. And it's off. Too much soft tissue buffers." _His head leans backward, facing her presumed higher level. _"Why?"_

'_Titanium osicles have arrived.'_

Brows rise in pleased surprise. _"Realy?"_

'_Two days ago.'_

"_But prisoners only get necessary surgeries."_ He finishes the thought understandingly. _"Reconstructions not in the budget."_

She taps affirmative. _'When do you want the surgery?'_

House pouts momentarily, mulling over his options.. _"Afternoon."_

'_So soon?'_

"_Got a feeling this is a good day, a good start."_

'_You're only getting 1 ear fixed now.'_ She reminds.

A thoughtful frown takes over his features. _"When's the next storm."_

'_In 3 days. Why?'_

"_I'd like to sleep through the pain."_ He reaches for the left knee instinctively.

'_I see.'_

"_Call OR, I want reservations for their best table. Got me a date with Euterpe."_ He grins.

'_Consider it done.'_ She leaves with a friendly pat.


	14. Fighting Spirit

**Fighting Spirit**

_Arrival to Earth  
Transformers OST  
Steve Jablonsky_

Staring at the window House watches the hypnotic waxing and waning of light, sun filtered through wind-swayed deciduous canopies. He smells Johns return, mattress at his leg giving way to new mass. Double tap of upward palm on the bed sheets is an invite for John to make contact. After a moment's hesitance his father's hand covers stiff fingers, depositing in them a cross shaped piece of metal. Recognizing his father's aviation medal and the intent behind the gesture, Greg blinks in disbelief, thumb feeling the once admired propeller-like star.

His breath hitches, coming out shaky, and John shuffles up the bed in response, firm hand on Greg's shoulder giving him small jerks of reinforcement. Slinking his long arm around John's outstretched; Greg pulls himself up, climbing to a confused old man. Claws seizing the front of a denim shirt, he leans his forehead on John's neck, crown of head pressed against a sagging jaw.

_"Say it."_

John swallows, Adam's apple sliding up and down against his son's receding hair line. "Greg?" Baffled voice comes off muffled as if by great distance, nowhere yet everywhere at once.

"_Yeah?"_

With only a layer of fabric between it and the senior's chest, Greg's left feels a missed heartbeat.

One thin yet muscular arm pulls Greg closer round the shoulders, another moving his head to a snug fit between neck and jaw. "I'm proud of you, son." The words are loud but affectionate.

Unexpected praise makes his intake of air intensely sharp.

"Very proud."

He gulps. _"Dad..."_

"What is it?"

"_Did you believe them?"_

John turns to the heavens and sighs with profound regret before burying his chin in Greg's curly hair. "I shouldn't have."

There is but a barely discernible sagging of Greg's shoulders.

"You're a hero, son. Bigger than I'll ever be." Soft words work to undo the damage dealt by the previous sentence. "Always were. And if fools like me didn't see that, we'll that's our problem, not yours." He picks up in volume. "You've got nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to be sorry for." Arms grip tighter, reinforcing the words.

"_Alison-"_

"-is on their heads." John cuts him off. "Not yours. You did nothing wrong, you hear me Greg? Nothing."

"_Okay."_ He whispers.

"You're not the criminal here, son. And you aint a victim either." He insists. "Understand?"

Greg doesn't respond.

"Victims get if handed for nothing and flee at first chance. You stepped up and took it to save others. That's what heroes do. That's what you are. Don't you ever doubt it for a second? You hear me?"

He nods rapidly.

"Good. And those scars you've got…" His hand encircles Greg's wrists, the thick ring of hairless, raised skin. "…you never, ever hide them." John shakes the arms. "Get it?"

Greg frowns.

"Listen, people hide things they're ashamed of. None of those are marks of shame. Not. One." He pokes at Greg's chest. "You think they make you look weak? Make you less of a man? Well they don't." The voice is rock-hard certain. "Matter of fact they show you've got the right stuff. Call it what you like: balls, guts, heart... You've got it in spades."

Greg chuckles.

"Look, its easy to dish it out on a chained man, but taking one for your buddy, now that's something."

"_I guess."_

"No." John doesn't balk from chiding to prove the point. "You don't guess. Be dead certain on it. Every scar you've got is a badge of honor. So you carry them with pride, show them off."

"_Huh?"_

"When you get out of this place - And you will get out -" He speaks with unwavering conviction. "- you wear the collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up like you used to, and you stand tall."

"_I can't-"_

"Like hell you can't." Cussing comes as a surprise. "You can bloody do anything." He convinces. "You already proved it." His arm returns around Greg. "You think those guards were tough? They were sissies. They wouldn't last a weak on the other end. Am I right?" He jostles Greg for a response.

House nods.

"Damn straight I am." John nods curtly. "So you carry yourself with pride, scars and all. And if Jesus himself comes down tomorrow to judge us - you tell him you took it five years longer than him and you... Did. Not. Die." He jostles Greg at each word, junior sniggering at the thought.

"_Okay, dad." _He replies with a smile.

John nods over his crown. "Good. Now let's get you ready for that operation so we can talk like men." He gives a heavy pat on the shoulder, which surprisingly does not frighten House.


	15. Hear Me Out

**Hear Me Out**

_Kaleidoscope of Mathematics  
A Beautiful Mind OST  
James Horner_

Beep … beep … beep goes the cardio monitor.

Eyes flutter open to monotone gray, awareness taking shape like a landscape through dissipating haze of anesthetics. It takes House a moment to figure what woke him up, another five for the realization to sink in. Bed squeals as he props up on one elbow, blanket rustling against linen. His heart thumps intensely, beeps catching up with its quickened pace.

Slowly he turns his head around in search of its source, stopping when the slight rise of volume reverses. Head properly angled, he takes in the sound, hand feeling for the machine and meeting its casing with a dull tap. Finding the button he switches it off with a satisfying click.

A low whir of ventilation catches his attention, than the muffled sound of badly oiled plastic wheels growing louder. Instinctively he follows the janitor's easy pacing across linoleum as it fades in and out with the man's seamless approach and departure.

Something shuffles nearby, feet in socks covering ground, steps growing louder, closer.

"Who is it?" His own voice is a rough whisper, like when he suffered colds.

"Relax." Wilson soothes, footsteps vanishing as he stands in place. "It's me."

House keeps turning his head at random. "Where are you?"

"Eleven thirty."

House turns to the younger man. "You sound older."

"And you're a choir boy." Wilson dispenses snark after a split second hesitance of doubt, a conscious effort at normalcy.

The sound of something lifted is heard, than footsteps return.

Another surprise comes when instead of the pattern-fitting handshake a square weight slowly levels off in his lap. Hands glide up the sides of a cardboard box with a low key grating, passing grip-holes and rough-cut edges to inspect its contents.

His right brushes the orb of rough fuzz interrupted by a curved line of rubber – tennis ball on steroids. Left hand tumbles over the serrated relief of angled CD cases, making little clack-clack noises as he leafs through them. Plastic disc halved by a groove for wrap-around fishing line is the yo-yo and a stack of wafer-thin envelopes holds his vinyl collection.

Digging around, House forgets to breathe. "I thought they'd impound everything."

"I sort of raided your office for personal stuff." Wilson is pointlessly, hopelessly apologetic.

But for the briefest touch of leather, the number one prize is almost overlooked as it is half-buried under the music collection. Hastily he clears the discs aside in search of a handle, making up a small, joyous racket. Finding it, he pulls out a small instrument case, scratched on the corners.

"How did you know - ?"

"It's time of arrival was… conspicuous." Wilson replies smiling.

Thumbs click open the two tiny buckles, top swung away. Velvety interior dips around the smoothly tapering brass horn, spiraling tube punctuated by three keys before ending with a mouthpiece. Carefully he picks the instrument, turning it over as if he could see the play of light on the distorted mirror of its surface.

House grabs hold of the piccolo trumpet with his right, testing the range of his better hand on the buttons. Finding the last three fingers of his left sufficiently mobile, he brings it up to freshly moistened lips.

Mouth puckered up, House blows away, playing a three-note G G E phrase through the first shallow breath. Even though it sounds awful he pours out more, the rest of the simple, children's counting chant plays out like G G E - G G E E - G E C.

Wilson's hand pushes the instrument down and from his lips.

"That good, ha?"

Wilson chuckles. "It'll take practice."

A lionesque yawn ambushes House. "Strange. I remember waking up just now."

"From unconsciousness." Wilson reminds. "It's two AM, your body is due a couple of REM cycles." He takes the box away.

House replaces the trumpet in its case and slowly closes it shut. "Could you stay with me?" He asks quietly. "Just till I drift off."

Wilson pulls a chair over, two feet dragging with a counterpoint of banshee screeching.

House winces and covers his ear. "Don't make me regret the operation."

"I couldn't possibly." He settles next to the bed head. "Want any music? I read recently cured deaf can have problems falling asleep."

'As can recently rescued abused.' House thinks to himself while curling into a ball facing Wilson. "Armstrong." He replies instead. "Wonderful world."

"Sure."

Pings resound as Wilson works the mp3 player, warm bass voice soon filling Greg's mind.

One hand round a pillow, House holds the other outstretched in a silent plea, which Wilson does not hesitate to oblige.


	16. Most Wanted

**Most Wanted**

_Grand Central Station  
K-pax OST  
Edward Shermur_

Where once his world was limited to the body, sound expands it to include the room and what little can be heard of the hall and outdoors through the glass doors and windows. Even if he can't pinpoint the location, it does not matter, for the sounds of the empty room are all background noise of barely audible beeping and humming. Those from outside are all from either of opposite directions: birds, and students outside, hospital staff in the hall.

He plays out likely scenarios from the snippets of conversation between passing nurses and the quiet cacophony of hospital surroundings, counting time in checkups, meals and classes.

His mind jerks to reality when a double clack of women's high heels drops from the sonar, a sign that someone stopped at his room. The sound being deep, indicative of wide, low heels rather than rapier-like stilettos, he excludes Lisa from the equation. Whoever it is, she knows how to balance sensible and appealing. True enough, a pair of ball bearings rumble along the guiding grove, citrus deodorant triggering the feeling of comfort in distress like he thought nothing could.

"You…" House utters even quieter than usual, the word leaving of its own volition. Flashback of rescue fills the still silence, small fingers like tingly apparitions stroking his scruff. "Who are you?" He turns around, hopefully door-wise.

"Detective Lopez." Replies the cautious alto, distinct color of voice teasing him with another memory, a different one just beyond grasp.

"Your voice is familiar." He states intrigued, wanting an explanation but accustomed to do without, especially because of her position of power.

A full second passes between each step she takes, her approach hesitant. "Three years ago on my first homicide case my partner and I were called in to investigate a crime scene at-"

"221B Baker street." He concludes. "You're the rookie that wouldn't buy my story." Eureka and wonder slip into the delivery in equal parts.

"The evidence supported it, but..." Something in her voice indicates a loss of words with which to convey intuitive understanding. "I've seen junkies snap as a beat cop. Your calm didn't fit the description."

House looks down to his lap in a gesture of humility. "Thank you."

"I failed you." Lopez is bewildered.

He shakes his head. "You reported suspicion even without a better explanation. Gave me reason to hope the crime shrink would investigate the claim, recognize chronic abuse and somehow the contract would be discovered without me doing anything." He huffs. "Apparently he was on payroll too."

"Him, the five guards at solitary and the prison doctor." She informs, quartet of chair legs clacking very close. "Anyone you want to add?"

Another shake of head. "Surprising how few people you have to buy to totally ruin a life."

The silence he attributes to Lopez thinking about the grim idea, but her next words annul the assumption. "I'm investigating Thompson's murder."

House inhales sharply, teeth grit till his jaw aches. "Killer?" He grates out.

"No idea."

"Good." He nods curtly. "Keep it that way."

Another rumble interrupts them, by smell and style of walk his parents.

Chair springs squeal under Lopez. "I better be going."

"Detective…" House calls after her. "Could you keep me posted on their trials?"

"Of course." The door shushes close.

House has trouble following two sets of feet, suddenly realizing the full importance of stereo surround sound.

"How's the ear?" John asks from near by, his tone a forced friendliness that makes House's hairs stand on edge from its sheer wrongness. "Any problems?"

"Not much." Greg is quiet, urge to complain atrophied from disuse.

"Listen." Blythe clasps his hand. "We need to go home and move some of our things to aunt Sarah. She and Tom gave us their guest room while you're at the hospital, so we don't have to travel far for visits. Once we're just a state away we'll be visiting on the weekends. We'll come back after your other ear is done to discus where you'll be recovering."

"Okay."

She pecks his tall forehead. "See you soon."

"Bye." He waves, arm steady with growing strength.

No sooner than they leave, another visitor drops by, hospital soap his dead give away.

"Heard you hauled your ass of that bed for food." An upbeat tenor draws near, underlined by bear-like stomping."

House is dumbstruck. "Clarence?"

"Expecting James Earl Jones?" The giant imitates with good humor, his weight pushing down on the rail.

"Yeah!" House manages to exclaim in a whisper,

Clarnece snorts. "Been told that a lot. Guess it's time for sit-ups, eh?"

"Last time I checked…" Palms inverted, House pushes himself into a more attentive pose on their outer surfaces. "…you were an orderly."

Clarence takes hold oh his forearms. "That's just to pay for med school." He states proudly.

"Pre-graduates doing PT 's not standard policy." House notes, guessing at the man's head by the way his hands are positioned. "Not without a big-shot around."

"Tony says it's cool." The shrug is felt through a slight, short move of hands, motion referred down the arms from shoulders.

"Tony?" House wonders in disbelief. "As in Anthony Bennet, physiatrist?"

"One and only."

"He returned to being my doctor?" The question is milder, a sense of normalcy returning.

"Doc there isn't a scrub in this place that's not involved with you in some way." Merriment flows with his words.


	17. Friend in Deed

**Friend in Deed**

_Hymn to the Fallen  
Saving private Ryan OST  
John Williams_

Despite anti-emetics, three surgeries worth of anesthesia crammed in one week have taken their toll on a body devoid of physical and mental reserves to fall back on. Brain busy with subconscious effort of recuperation, House drifts in the semi-aware state between sleep and wakefulness while his queasy stomach sabotages all attempts at blissful unconsciousness. At least the IV nutrients are keeping him from regressing to emaciate when his missing appetite can't.

"You all right?" Wilson's concern is a welcomed red herring to the lousy trick his body plays, and House is grateful for the newly acquired ability to locate sound without needing to move an inch.

"Somebody get the license plates of that truck." He whispers, Wilson chuckling at his friend's wit, absent for far too long. Firm squeeze on his forearm is yet more praise in an environment eager to reward his every mean of expression, but the astute House, fine tuned to the signals of his tactile receptors, picks up more than intended.

"Who's the lucky lady?" His brows rise curious, answered by stunned silence. "You've got two parallel indents on the fourth finger, ring marks. Means you're married. Also means you took them off recently because you're hiding it."

"I didn't want to bother you." Wilson is shy like a kid caught red handed, his grip suddenly loose.

"You think you can't tell me?" He scowls. "Now I _am_ worried."

Rustle of shirt triggers speculation as to cause, Wilson scratching his nape being most likely. "I didn't know how you'd take the news. You've been one step from shattering ever since you returned. The slightest thing would set you off."

House snorts sadly. "Trust me, those were no slight things."

An apologetic, understanding "Oh..." is heard.

"So who is she?"

"Irene." Wilson's voice lights up. "Met her eight months ago, she was a clinic patient of mine. We started dating a week after, married for three months now."

"Eight months ago I was executed." House is objective, calculatingly distanced from his words and experiences. "She another charity case?"

"Actually… she saved me." Wilson admits.

"Moved in with her?" House asks innocently, still too much ground to cover before he can revert to old mocking ways.

"My place." Wilson sounds proud of himself. "I did leave the hotel eventually." He preempts.

"Good for you." Comes a deadpan congratulation, another wave of nausea striking.

"Now promise not to mock immediately." Wilson demands, silliness on the way just from his voice. Sheets of cardboard grates past each other, a box opening perhaps. "Irene makes her own scented candles." Something lands on the nightstand.

The statement leaves House wondering what's so mock-worthy about it. "Aaand?"

Lighter's spark at his ear triggers in House a momentary panic but he quickly snuffs it.

"I had one made for you." Smell of burning thread paints an image of a warm glow paraffin 'onion'.

An odd smell tickles his nose and his memory. "Leather?"

"Well I didn't ask for a girly one." His friend is a tad insulted.

For his part, House is too intrigued by the logistics of that task to notice the conversation stray into gender differences. "She can make leather-scent?"

"She can put anything inside." Wilson explains off handedly. "Even weed." The whisper is a breeze at Greg's ear.

Facts on vaporizers, scent masking and chemo side-effects drop in his mind all at once, like an avalanche, and the mere knowledge of upcoming relief eases the grip on his innards. Flashbacks of student days come by association, rolls passed along after gigs in seedy bars, Crandall on the sax, Steve a one-man drum-line and him at the piano. Easy smile falters at the thought of a favored pastime now out of consideration, hatred turning to glacial determination, unnoticeable yet irresistible.

"Wilson…"

"Hm?"

"Find everything you can on Thompson's murder." House is as close to requesting as his still submissive character can be.

Wilson is quiet for the briefest moment. "Why?" He asks cautiously, fearing something.

"I want to find the killer."


	18. Plot the Course

**Plot the Course  
**

House listens to doves gurgling peaceably in the campus park, a knock snapping him from daydreaming.

"Who is it?" He whispers.

"Bennet." Replies a bellowing bass in its strident approach. "I've come to talk about your hands."

House turns back to the window, nipping the conversation in the bud.

"If the bones are left malformed your tendons will fray, taking what little use remains." Bennet is persistent.

"Do what you have to." House allows, not moving a muscle. The sound of a chair pulled over grates at his nerves.

"House… you have almost no function in the right hand and very little in the left. With a standard operation, I might be able to restore full use of the first there fingers of your left hand. All five if we're lucky, but thumb and index at least. As for the right hand, you should be able to move the fingers from relaxed to contracted position, but no extension and no opposite action of individual knuckles. Also, the thumb will probably move on one axis only."

"A claw." He concludes.

"More or less." Tony admits. "I understand you used to be right handed but the left hand is currently less damaged. You may find yourself ambidextrous in a way."

"One hand for force, other for finesse."

"Piano is out of question, but stuff like drums and trumpet need not be." He comments, teasing with promises.

Tempted, House turns to the man. "Non standard operation?"

Bennet huffs. "Seeing how you had a number of amputated toes, I advise we salvage the foot tendons in exchange for more dexterity."

"How much?"

"A fully functional left and independently mobile right hand fingers."

The thought of playing chords on the guitar and perhaps the one-handed piano pieces is tantalizing to say the least, despite the fact that he'll have to re-learn it virtually all of it from scratch. "Talk me through surgery."

"General anesthesia procedure." Bennet emphasizes. "Basically the incorrectly healed bones are broken –"

House winches.

"Under full anesthesia." He reassures. "…and set into proper position. The hand is placed in a special cast, personalized using a virtual anatomical model of a healthy hand, with MRI measurements for variables, and a 3D printer to make the cast halves."

"Printer?"

"A new gizmo." The surgeon speaks with a hint of a smile. "When the cast is removed another surgery is done to repair the tendons already damaged." He continues. "Than the cast is replaced until the tendons heal also. The plan is to first fix your right hand to the level of mobility your left hand currently has, than to improve upon the left. That way you will have some use of either hand at any point. The whole thing might take as much as a year."

House nods his approval. "Legs?"

"I know you hate sugar coating so here's the blunt truth - If you ever get back on your cane it will be a miracle. The most I can promise you are crutches."

"Figured as much." Comes a resigned mumble.

Scrubs rustle as the man stands up. "I'll schedule OR."


	19. Scratch My Back

**Scratch My Back**

Elevator pings open to cavernous dark, gray flickering to existence from periphery to center of his field of vision. "Here we are Doc." Clarence pushes the wheelchair forward, steps echoing on the ceramic tiles of the 'sauna section' hallway. A few steps down they turn round, stopping in rehab bathroom if memory serves.

Sound of an intense jet striking ceramics comes from his right, a cloud of fog engulfing the room. The noise turns deep as water rises to where jet meets bath, becoming almost bubbly just before it fades to a trickle of drops. Ground soap is a dry powder in his nose, water sloshing against bath and itself in intersecting waves.

Wheel brakes pushed to place, House pulls the knot undone and maneuvers himself out of the garment. Two men place opposite arms around each other's shoulders, Clarence also scooping Greg's legs.

"Ready?" The orderly lifts straight up from knees, turning around. "Here we go…" He lowers House steadily. "Nice and slow."

Fingertips and corns make contact with the hot water, at fist uncomfortable but gradually turning pleasant, limbs dissolving in molten comfort. House sighs delighted. Ears submerge to silence, his adrenalin surging. "Head up." He begs urgently.

Clarence pulls him up a bit more, head in the air. "Don't worry." The tenor is soothing. "You won't sink."

"That's not what I'm afraid of." He admits, feeling supporting arm tense.

"Sensory deprivation." Clarence mutters.

House nods, lids half closed.

"Drugs?" The question is precarious.

His swallow is answer enough.

"Shit…"

House merely shrugs. "There were worse things."

"Don't wanna know and I doubt you wanna talk about 'em."

House shakes his head a little.

Sound of pouring water precedes a warm trickle over Greg's scalp, drenched towel swiping from the center of his forehead outwards, than to the outer side, moving from left to right over closed eyes, cheeks, below nose and round the jaw.

"So how does a death row convict like you become a med student?" House asks nonchalant his neck is washed.

"A fellow inmate diagnosed me with ten-percent tumor on his way to execution." He replies with a smile to his voice, moving over chest.

"But you dismissed me." Greg is confused. "Said you didn't care if cancer killed you when the state will do it anyway."

The towel does not return for another swipe. "That's before I saw you in the hole." The humor is gone from his tone.

"I don't remember you coming -" House pauses. "I was blind by then."

"Yeah." Clarence huffs. "When the guards asked if I could pay for a blow job I thought they were smuggling in prostitutes. If I knew…" His voice catches. "Fuck!" The towel splashes in the tub, waves rolling between limbs.

"Did you-"

"HELL NO!" The giant barks, House withdrawing in himself like a shell-less turtle. "Sorry, I-" He takes a calming breath. "I saw the tattoo, memorized it word by word."

"I thought you were Thomspon, walking around, gloating silently."

"I wasn't." The scrubbing over his abdomen is purposefully gentler.

"I was in there for months after that." Words come laced in hurt disappointment. "Couldn't figure how to bypass the guards?" He looks toward the bigger man.

"That and being shit scared of payback." The rub down ribs is firm to avoid tickling.

"So what did you do?"

"I didn't." Clarence chuckles self deprecatingly. "I had one helluva panic attack, heart pumping air can you believe it?"

"Let me guess, prison doctor had no idea what it was, forwarded it to a colleague who forwarded it to a colleague until it came to my old students."

"Eric Forman." Clarence confirms as he moves to one arm, starting at the shoulder. "When I read his name tag…" A half laugh escapes. "But I had to hide my excitement. So I played a lunatic, rambling about the building being alive and telling me I had that tumor you mentioned. Went on about its huge blue windows to the soul, and that reminded me of you always humming something so I jumped to listing all the music styles like jazz and blues but not gangsta rap 'cuz the building aint violent, never hurt no one, but plenty hurt the hospital and that's why it plays blues. I set up camp at blues, said the building was blue 'cuz some thugs left it broken and empty, stole everything and wrecked everything, left it a ghost. Than for finale… picture this, I made eye contact with him and held it, going from rambling to dead serious and sad, saying: You gotta save the house of healing."

House howls his joy. "You nailed him!"

"Two seconds later – BINGO! His eyes were like satellite dishes." Clarence is ecstatic, towel flailing about, launching stray drops all around. But soon it is back on the other arm. "Now Egg Head-"

"Forman?"

"Yeah, Egg Head." Clarence sounds like 'who else?' "He was all messed up, trying to finish my check up, than gave up and said he has to get Doc Wilson cuz he's more experienced. The next hour was sheer stress, but he did come back with Puppy-eyes."

House bursts a snort. "Puppy eyes? Oh, you're good."

"And _he_ did a biopsy on my adrenalin gland all the while trying to figure if I'm a loony who stumbled upon a disease or if there's something behind my ravings. And I made damn sure I look sane."

"Tomorrow morning I was shipped here 'cuz the biopsy was positive, which probably made all of 'em edgy as hell but they couldn't show it. I was in OR with Puppy Eyes, on local anaesthesia so we could talk during surgery 'cuz that was the only place with no guards in ear-shot. First thing he said is 'Is it true?' I said I've got good news and bad, the good news is - he's alive. The bad news is - just barely.' He said my condition can get me clemency if the dean testifies on my behalf, but I had to testify for you in return. Said he can arrange a meeting with the DA and witness protection for me also, all while I'm still in post op so the guards won't know about it till it's done with. All I had to do is say yes. So I did." He shrugs.

House feels his heart in a vice, grips his scrub by the front. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Doc." Clarence finishes the hands and moves to legs, adding a bit massage at the half-amputated thigh.

"What happened next?"

"Puppy Eyes nodded to the balcony where Hot Momma-"

House laughs, Clarence joining.

"She stormed out like a pack of wolves were on her tail. Same evening the DA arrived so we talked, and he wasn't hot on our deal until I mentioned the conversation you had between the priest that gave you your last rights but was actually your tormentor. When I mentioned how you failed to save his ten year old in time and how she died of a curable hereditary illness he realized that guy was the big mob boss, so all of a sudden he became eager as hell."

House frowns. "I thought Thompson was killed?"

"Same night you were rescued." Clarence nods. "In his garage, point blank, no clues, no witnesses, no nothing. They think it was a mob war with the Italian mafia. Apparently the Arnelo clan blamed Thompson on the death one of their bosses."

"How come the DA didn't drop your deal?"

"You kidding?" Clarence is bewildered. "He had a perfect excuse to look through all of Thompson's stuff, found a tone of evidence to pull the whole operation down. That man was in a very generous mood and I cashed in on it." He is smug.

"Yeah, but _med student_?" House is still interested.

"Deal was I get immediate parole if I get a job and start college. Hot Momma said 'He'll start working as orderly next Monday and enroll next semester. With only one adrenal gland he'll be twice as docile as the average person' - Which is true, so here I am."

The sound and feel of water swirling away brings House back into the present situation. "I don't remember you doing my-"

"Around cashing in on DA's generosity." Clarence reassures. "Took the opportunity when I saw how engrossed you were."

Lowering surface level eases House to the bottom of the bath, Clarence fetching a huge dry towel to mop him up in vigorous rubbing. Having finished, he spreads it from navel to knees and returns the older man in the chair.

Once cotton makes contact with shoulders, House does most of the dressing, only needing help with the intricacy of the knot. "Walk before me." He orders.

"Huh?"

"I'll follow your footsteps. Just lead the way." He tips his chin to where he calculated the door to be.

"Whatever you say Doc." Clarence turns around, walking out slowly.

House grabs the metal rings of the chair's wheels and pushes, steadily moving forward.


	20. His Father's Son

**His Father's Son**

_No Sacrifice, No Victory  
Transformers OST  
Steve Jablonsky_

Rap of knuckles on glass interrupts a relaxing symphony, warning of father's arrival, John entering his room without permission just as he did decades ago. Greg rolls to the other side, covers tangling round his legs. "Hey."

"Greg." John almost salutes, noise from his person like nuts and bolts in a closed, rhythmically shaken box.

"What's that?"

"Something to help pass the time."

The 'something' lands on the table with a dull ta-dum, table itself rolled over.

Lowering the rail out of way John sits across Greg, by his knees. "Open it." He instructs impatiently anxious.

Greg pushes himself higher on the bed, hands seeking the mysterious object. He finds a flat acrylic rectangle, one by two by four in relative size, its top a latticework of shallow, perpendicular grooves that outline alternating smooth and sanded squares. Thumbs stumble upon round dents at the thirds of the front side, pushing the chest open against the resistance of magnetic seals. Inside, three canvas sacks of differing size are rough under his fingertips, each a treasure trove of jangling chips.

Pulling open the drawstring of the smallest one, Greg digs in the pile of thick coins, half of them with ridged circumferences and half without, both having the edge raised on one and lowered on the other side to allow stacking of pawns into queens. Putting the sack aside he takes the next one in size, its content also two sets, differentiated not ribs but by whether the chess pieces have their symbols in raised or lowered relief. Finally, the largest one holds chips smooth on one and sanded on the other side, made for reversi.

Hands come around the sack in a shaky grip interrupted by occasional fidget.

"Greg?" John clasps his left. "You all right?"

Junior nods unconvincingly. "Yeah, I- It's just… Not used to good surprises." Voice unsteady but holding.

"Well get used to it." John jostles his hand. "Come on, black or white?"

Greg scowls, at a loss. "Which one's white?"

"Oh for Christ's sake, just pick one." John growls with overly dramatic exasperation.

Grabing a fistful of chips, Greg turns the board over and arranges four in the center, setting up a match. He plays first, the only move that can be played if one really thinks about it, and leaves the choice of game style to father's counter move.

John takes Greg's hand and, placing a piece in it, guides it to his chosen square. "Remember how we used to play when you were a kid?" He ventures into distant past.

"You taught me." Greg nods. "Tried to prepare me for marines."

"Did any of it help?" The question is desperately hopeful.

"I learned to keep the whole situation in mind." He admits. "All the elements and their progress. Very useful in diagnostics."

"Anything else helped you?" John urges him on. "In or out of prison."

"That." He nods at the player still pouring unassuming melodies from its small speaker.

"Realy." John reins in his disbelief, waiting for elaboration.

"Bad things happening to me tend to be physical. Music is anything but. It's an escape."

"Guess I shouldn't have discouraged your mother's piano lessons." John mutters.

"You wanted to make me strong." Greg sounds understanding if not outright forgiving.

"Did I?"

Greg places a piece on the edge, flipping a row of chips to his possession, searching for the right words. "You wanted me solid, firm." He finally speaks. "If I were like that, I'd have snapped long ago."

"To bend but not to break." Come the words of acceptance.

Greg nods.

"Than its good you didn't yield to me." The words are carefully chosen, preserving good intentions yet being reconciliatory.

"It's strange…" Greg half snorts. "Your sanctions trained me do without, overcome pain, delay responses till its safe to vent."

"At least something came of it." John grunts, playing to claim a bunch of Greg's pieces in a number of direction, touching each with junior's fingers.

"I also figured life is like this." Greg nods at the board. "Turning upside down unexpectedly." He takes the corner, retaliating. "From geek to team captain, athlete to cripple, top student thrown out for college, betrayal by a loved one, getting the best job in the world, pissing off a monster, rescued when I gave up..."

Suddenly a foreboding melody begins: shrill of strings, brooding basses, stressful percussions and eerie, monotone vocal.

"The hell is that?" John's voice is unnerved.

"That's how it felt like." Greg faces the device, words barely discernable.

Senior falls silent, letting the piece get to him with all its disconcerting power.

When it blends to a calmer song, the two continue playing, nothing of importance spoken. Eventually Greg wins, John promising a rematch as they gather up the stuff. Case set on the nightstand, they bid each other goodnight.

Just as the doors open Greg clears his throat. "Dad. You did all right."


	21. Cutting Losses

**Cutting Losses**

Now that days have an ordered rhythm his body can synchronize with, the first of hunger pangs forewarns of upcoming lunch and with it noon. Lazily the free hand plucks at the blanket, tiny fibers pulled out one by one, other one cast-bound in his lap. Doors open to a myriad of sensations, last felt half a dozen years earlier.

Yet despite the time past, he _knows_ her, will always know, by sound, smell of any other sense, her walk, her voice, the little mannerisms that eventually influenced his...

"You look like crap." House can hear tears behind the barb and immediately wants to drive them away.

He turns to her with eyes closed, hiding their ruined charisma. "Good to hear you, Stacy."

Sandals slap across linoleum, elegant hand joining lanky, bony one.

"How was vacation in Biafra?" Teasing fights sorrow, drawing from him a smirk.

"I recommend their extreme sports."

She chuckles. "Where did you stay?"

"Hotel Rwanda, of course."

"I've heard they've got everything." Stacy sits at his side, her thigh touching his through the covers. "Turkish baths, Russian baths…"

"…acupuncture, yoga, chiropractics…"

"Exotics even." She sounds impressed.

A bursting snort. "And novel cuisine. Cant forget about that one"

"Let me guess." Stacy is mock-deadpan. "Very cleansing."

House snigger's.

Her thumbing his palm evokes not so chaste memories, self-consciousness awakened to remind of his pitiful condition. The part of him that would revel in that kind of attention moves aside for the sense of unworthiness, hand pulling away and joining its idle pair.

"What's wrong?" She rubs at his left thigh, voice low with concern.

Chin meets chest as he mumbles. "You can do better."

"I haven't come to _do_ anything." Stacy is adamant. "And you're not a lost case."

His head rises defiant. "I may be blind but I can still feel. I look like a geriatric, I _feel_ like one. My limbs are all but useless… And that's just the physical." He mutters resigned, eyes downcast again.

"You're right. It is just physical." She meets his certainty. "You're determined, loyal, you've kept your humor, your brains."

Eyes closed he leans his head back, face aimed at the ceiling. "Humor 's just coming back. Not so sure about the brain. I'm a nervous wreck waiting to happen."

"So what if you're jumpy." Stacy is dismissive. "You've got a dozen people ready, willing and able to look after you. You'll get used to safety." The quiet certainty of her tone encourages.

"I hope you're right." Words don't come off assured.

"And what makes you think the brilliance is gone?"

"The guards would inflict physical pain, but the lawyer… he knew how to hit where it hurts." House gulps. "Shocks." Word leaves on a whisper. "I felt my mind vanish." He speaks barely discernibly. "Skills, memories – old or new, good and bad... gone." A shaky breath inhaled. "I know there are things missing and I can't even remember what they are." The back of his eyes sting tearless.

Her arms come around him, his hanging from her shoulders, faces turned away from one another but touching.

"You have to re-learn music anyway." She begins damage control. "Catch up with recent discoveries. Your parents must have photo albums from childhood. Crandall can fill you in on college. Wilson and Cuddy know what happened recently. Your fellows too. And you can always talk to me. You'll probably remember a tone of things you never noticed forgetting."

He makes a nod against her shoulder.

"And there's one reason that'll guarantee you women's attention." Stacy's voice intrigues. "You're rich."

He smirks against her ear. "Could you manage the reparations? I was never good with money."

"Any ideas?" She is curious.

"Sell all Thompson's stuff." His voice wanders into angry. "Invest in something that can finance me for a long time." It returns calm.

"How about shares of established internet businesses?"

"That'd be great." He nods, released back into the pillows. "You defended me, didn't you?"

"How did you conclude that?" She is not surprised at his knowing.

House shrugs. "Can't think of anyone else that could get me a millionaire's compensation this fast. Or get Clarence that good a deal."

"You figured either Wilson or Cuddy called me when he showed up." Stacy speaks through a smile.

He nods.

"You've got no reason to fear brain damage." Her pleasure is evident.

Great forehead lines up like a plowed field as brows rise, truth of her words sinking in. "You weren't around when they brought me?"

"I heard what was done to you, I couldn't bring myself to see you in ruins."

"I see." House speaks bland, understanding but not quite forgiving. Finally he ventures into catching up. "How come you're still single?"

Ragged breathing is heard, like when she begged him to lose the leg. "I'm widowed."

"Sorry." He mumbles.

"No one could figure out what was wrong with him." Stacy's voice is sad but not tearful, she has accepted it. "Not even your students."

"Not even me." House gives voice to the unspoken implication.

"House… you have to go back to medicine. Your fellows saved a lot of lives, but not nearly as much as you would."

"'Would' being the key word here." Suppressed frustration bubbles. "I can't be trusted with lives, not like this."

"So you do your homework first, read up on things. Anyone would loose their touch after a year of not practicing. And the board won't sign you up without a test of competence. Am I right?"

"Yes." The monosyllabic confirmation is unmoved.

"Besides, people like Mark…" She falters momentarily. "They've got nothing to loose."

House gulps against fear of failure. "I'll try."


	22. Getting Out

**Getting Out**

_Rain  
Spirit, Stallion of Cimarron OST  
House Zimmer_

Light reflected off the park lake is a space-scape of flickering sterling on black, sun and wind in a tug of war over his skin, one a warm salve and the other a cool caress. Sounds of urban wildlife come from semi-randomly scattered vegetation, from low lying vines to high rising tree tops.

"Should have known you two would pull a prison break eventually." Cuddy's voice is laughing its approach, a small army of people trailing in her wake.

"Sorry, ma'am." Clarence is the first to reply. "Didn't have the heart to refuse him."

"You could have brought him back for the meeting." She persists.

House hears her stop at his left, sandwiching him between herself and the black giant. "Lost track of time." He bails the big oaf. "We can talk here anyway."

People arrange themselves close by, sitting on benches and leaning against trees, seeking sun or shade according to preference.

"Any news on the corneas?" He follows Cuddy to a bench nearby.

"The transplant can come tomorrow or it may never." Cuddy is at his level. "You need to make this call independent of it." She insists.

House sighs. "Clarence." Plastered right hand pushes at a spike on the wheel ring, left pulling the back ring simultaneously and the chair spins in place, turned at the dark silhouette towering in front of him.

The shadow swirls like fat ink, shrinking nigh perceptibly with each flat step. House pushes the wheel ring in a slow, wobbly drive as the entourage falls in step around and behind him.

"So what have you planed for me?"

"Basicaly there are three options. The easiest one is for you to stay at the hospital, at least till your right hand is fixed. You'll get the best room, handpicked caretakers… "

"Easy is never right." He reluctantly declines. "What else?"

"You can come home with us." Blythe places a hand on his shoulder.

"Clarence can't leave Jersey." His tone leaves no room for anyone's effort of persuasion.

"That leaves our original idea…" Wilson speaks form behind.

"Which is?"

"Two condos on the ground floor of a townhouse, one for you and one for Irene and me."

House grinds to a halt, the crowd stopping. "I'll be living alone?" A sliver of fear shakes the delivery.

"But you'll never _be_ alone." Wilson eases his mind. "Clarence will be with you in the morning, Irene and I will be around in the afternoon and evening, and the rest of the time you'll be sleeping. Okay?"

"She's gonna want some time without me." House warns, moving again. "Unless she's a future ex-wife."

"We can visit." Chase chimes in from the sidelines. "Spend an hour or two every evening."

"Rotate." Cuddy agrees.

"We can help you prepare for the exam." Forman regrets his choice of words immediately. "Bring you latest hospital gossip." He seamlessly moves to pure positive.

"I can hire a maid to clean and cook for you while you read up on medicine or do whatever solitary hobby you like." Wilson adds. "That ought to get us a few hours more?"

"Could you try and get my old one?" House turns to where Wilson's loafers grate over the small, pebbly shoreline. "Not big on strangers."

"I'll see what can be done. You remember her name?"

"Elena... something." He pouts. "Ruiz, I think."

"I'll look her up."

Arms tired, House stops for a second. "There should be a picnic table around."

"Right up here, Doc" Clarence strolls a little forward and to the left, House at his heels and the others around him.

Wheelchair bumps into something wall-solid, hands resting on the concrete slab that is the table top. People move around it, his parentns on the right-hand bench, Wilson and Cuddy to his left, her hand on his. Chase, Forman and Stacy on their feet, her sandals slowly pacing up and down. Clarence, as always, stands just beyond Greg's right shoulder, weight leant on the wheelchair handle.

"We can also have the door open between apartments if that'll make you feel better." Wilson adds.

House shakes his head. "Anyone entering the building will be in our living rooms."

"There'd only be us and the landlord on the first floor. And she's out most of the time."

"How long will it take you to arrange everything?"

"Already done." Wilson assures. "A day to have the stuff stuff shipped to the new place and you can move in."

"You've got furniture for me all ready."

"I've done detailed preparations."

House 'looks' over to Stacy. "You're gonna take care of bills, right?"

"Of course."

"You'll be glad to know rent is symbolic..." Wilson begins with a smile to his voice. "Dollar a week. In honor of your heroism."

House has an epiphany of mixed joy and sorrow. "It's my old place." He sounds distant. "The details all fit."

Silence indicates their surprise at his conclusion.

"No one would give up half their income because of naïve admiration." He elaborates. "She's guilty."

"For what?" Forman is baffled.

"Must have noticed strange men visiting at odd hours. Now she regrets not doing a thing about it."

"All it takes for evil to win..." John mutters bitterly.

Bark crackles under fist from Chase's direction.

"Still want to go there?" Cuddy voices what's on everyone's mind.

House nods briefly, facing the table center.

"You sure?" Wilson joins in.

He looks up. "It's home."


	23. Homecoming

**Homecoming**

_Fly Like an Eagle  
Spirit, SotC OST  
Hans Zimmer_

House, on the front passenger seat, is bathed in light coming form three sides, the car warmed to ache-dispensing sauna from a day in the late spring sun. The jeans and dress shirt are a size to wide, but he doesn't mind just now.

Joy is the operative word of the ride, him following their progress through Princeton on his mental map, excitement building with each sway at crossroads and corners. Turning left into Baker Street, it subsides to equal parts calm content and expecting joy.

"Here we are." Wilson declares celebratory, car puling over.

Darkness consumes his right, door opening to street sounds.

"Hello, Greg." A contra alto is friendly.

"Hi Irene." The reply is braver than he thought it would be given her unfamiliarity.

With a stretched-out hiss of pneumatics the trunk opens, starting a small breeze through the sedan, wheelchair unfolding with a clack and thumping on the curb. Propped against the dashboard on the cemented fist, House hauls one leg out of the car with his left, turning slightly in the process.

"Do you need help?" She offers.

Silent, he maneuvers the other one out on his own and grabs at the car body, torso hauled up in a push-up like motion. Feeling the polyester cloth contact the back of his knees, he eases, depositing his rear to the other seat and exhaling loudly.

"Let's get you in." Wilson turns him building-wise and drives up a steep incline in a few strong pushes; one for Irene's every step up the stairs as she moves to open the doors for them.

"I'll park the car." Irene takes the key from Wilson.

In the cool of indoor shade, House hears keys jangle inches from his nose. "Wanna do the honors?"

Trinity of bolt, knob and hinges does a pleasing song and dance routine under his orchestration, door swinging open with the lightest touch.

And than it hits him, like a shot of morphine, the smell of wood and leather, of dusty books and heavy cloths, smoke of cigars and fireplace alike. It has an air of antique mystery, evoking mental snapshots of royal studies from bygone ages, decadent salons and aloof libraries simultaneously.

A mix of smells so persistent they have impregnated themselves into the very walls. In his mind's eyes he can picture every nook and cranny, see it as clearly as the day he first laid eyes on it all those years ago, an expanse of beige with white highlights framing the space waiting to be filled with his personality.

A quadrille of full plastic wheels waltzes over hardwood from the hallway starting point, Wilson guiding an office chair to his side.

"This oughta be easier to maneuver round obstacles." Explains he, placing Greg's hand over his shoulder, his own around the older man's chest.

"What obstacles?" House wonders as he is moved from chair to chair, hard rubber in plastic cover supporting his weight in all the right places, having previously been comfortably broken in. His face is pure astonishment, brows high and mouth agape.

"Feel free to feel around." Wilson speaks to his ear, voice equally smug and soft.

Reaching for the nearby wall, House moves along it, over a window rimmed in heavy curtains, progress halted by a wall of different texture, no longer slightly grainy paint but hair's-width deep, parallel vertical grooves of unpolished, unlacquered wood. Moving over an age-dulled edge he finds shelves mostly empty, a burst of joy exploding in him at every exotic souvenir stumbled upon. Childhood adventures flood back like tidewaters breaching, each discovery feeds his curiosity.

Over another window he moves, noting the absence of baby-grand in the corner, not knowing weather to be sad or glad for it but continuing along a barren fireplace mantle till he brushes a soft obstacle. Fingertips meet leather to follow its reclined contour.

"You kept everything!?" He is bewildered.

Distinct sound of reaching for one's nape comes form where he assumes the sofa still stands. "Well not everything." Jimmy is a geek doing damage control when word of lame interest has spread. "Definitely not the bed."

"I should hope not." Irene speaks from the opposite corner.

Her statement starts a crazy contraption running in Greg's mind, less and less believable conclusions churned out. House points from one to another, mouth open but words stuck. "You lived here…" He turns to Wilson. "Since when?"

Sound of leather over leather is heard as Wilson leans into the sofa, sighing. "When you pushed me away I felt a change was in order, a major one, so the first thing I decided was to ditch the hotel room. But none of the apartments I scouted felt right because it wasn't a place I was looking for, it was company." 'Your company' is left hanging. "So the search dragged on." He takes a breather. "Than the murder happened. I knew in my guts you didn't do it, so I decided to take over the rent and keep a light out for you. It turned out a bargain because no one wanted a crime scene." Another pause. "By the time it was obvious you wouldn't be coming back, I had already settled in. And If I couldn't have our friendship back I could have at least keep the place as reminder of it. It was the last one I felt welcome anyhow." He admits.

Irene settles next to him.

"You must have spent a fortune buying it all back." House talks to no one in particular.

"Old stuff on a police auction?" Jimmy chuckles. "You gotta be kidding."

"These are antiques." House corrects.

Wilson chucles. "I was in no hurry to tell them."

"So what did you get?" House is curious.

"Well, the kitchen and bathroom come with the place so I didn't need to do a thing about those." Wilson begins. "I had already decided for a loan to furnish my own place so it wasn't trouble financially. The shelves, cookware, dishes and silverware were sold in sets so there was a kind of bulk discount for those. I had no need for your slew of lamps, chairs and canes so those were out. I took the souvenirs because I knew you valued them and abandoned the piles of textbooks you haven't touched in years. They serve the library of some state-run college now. I kept the small TV and music collection from your office but the stereos and instruments were too expensive. Laptop and anything I already owned was dropped too. I figured you could get the medical models and low tech pharmaceutical tools when you get back. And that's about it."

"Are you without furniture now?"

"Most of this was in storage since Irene came along with her stuff." Wilson's voice lightens up.

"And some new shared-ownership stuff." She chimes in.

House nods. Shoulders squared, he clears his throat. "I'd like to see the bedroom."

"Sure." Wilson rises, Irene knowing when to stay back.

House pushes off a bookshelf, propelled to the hall and beyond from one piece of furniture to the next. He notes no two walls or furniture pieces are less than two or more than four feet apart, ideal for the kind of bouncy travel method he is using now. Wilson's anal attention to detail never ceases to amaze him.

"There can be no more clutter House." Wilson follows him into the bedroom. "You can't look for things blind and if you just leave them around they'll impede your mobility."

"I know, Jimmy." Annoyance at mother-henning is obvious in his tone.

Both men are shocked to silence by the weight of the words, first sign of assertiveness showing, even if only with a pushover like Wilson.

"Good to have you back, House" Wilson is solemn.

A smile tugs the corner of his mouth. "Good to be back."


	24. Brand New Day

**Brand New Day**

_Launch  
Armageddon OST  
Trevor Rabin_

House stirs to soreness permeating his right hand and both shoulders, the forefront of full blown agony that is to grip every bone end tendon in the following days, when the forecasted low pressure system strikes Jersey. He keeps an optimistic view on things, focusing rather on the fact that his half-dead thigh will enjoy a few days reprieve in the warmth of a spring cyclone. It's a small comfort but these days he is not a picky man, taking whatever nature throws at him in the form of atmospheric conditions, as she at least shows mercy from time to time.

Contemplation on a life dictated by weather reports is cut short by the noise in the joint lobby, marking Wilson's eight o'clock wake-up call.

"Morning House." The younger man trots in.

House replies with an inarticulate "Hrm"

"How are you?"

He answers with a tap on the shoulder, left hand rising to indicate 'five' with poorly extended fingers.

"Bones?"

House shakes his head.

"Can you do physio?"

The shrug is small, another symptom of discomfort at motion. "If get a medium patch after."

"Better keep it minimum." Advises Wilson. "Avoid building up tolerance."

A nod of agreement.

Phone begins its unobtrusive beeping from the living room, answering machine declaring "The number you have dialed is out of function." in an electronic, androgen voice, before the start-of-recording bleep.

"Hey, Doc." Clarence is undeterred by the journalist-repellant. "Just callin' to say I'm here. Don't want you going to red alert over nothin'."

Wilson is already at the front door by the time the doorbell buzzes.

"Hello, Doctor Wilson." The giant is amicable.

"Hi, Clarence. House is having a not-that-good day."

"Don't worry, sir, he and I will figure something out." Sport's bag lands next to the entrance.

"Sandwiches are on the butcher block." Walks him back.

"Ok." Clarence is at the hall's near end. "Hey, Doc."

House raises a hand in salute.

"Ok." Jimmy breathes. "See you latter, guys. Call if you need anything."

"Get going already." House mumbles, earning a snort from his caretaker.

"Ok, Doc…" Clarence rolls him over, covers flung aside and pillow pulled form under House's head. "…relax and let me do the work."

"Gladly." He feels the left leg maneuvered every which way, muscles flexing and extending passively to keep them form total atrophy.

"Doc… how did you figure I've got cancer?"

"Internally inconsistent behavior." House replies. "One day you could take the guards' worst shit stoically…" He pauses for another shallow breath. "…the next you'd explode over running out of tooth paste."

"That's why you're famous? Because you can figure what's wrong with people just by looking at them?"

"I could." He corrects. "But I was famous from the get go."

"Why?"

"My doctoral thesis is the infectious disease bible."

"Oh?" Clarence is pleasantly surprised. "What's it about?"

"Decreasing infectious disease mortality and morbidity rates through effective quarantine of severely ill." He recites the title. "To sum up… Keep the really sick from being bitten by bugs, shitting and pissing in the drinking water or spewing body fluids on others… than sit back, relax and enjoy the show… evolution domesticates the nasty bugs for you."

"So what's the big deal 'bout that?"

"The guidelines written down… are estimated to save a billion lives…"

Clarence stops moving in the middle of a leg-lift. "Whoa…!"

"…in my lifetime alone…" House goes on. "…and another one every following century." He heaves.

"No shit!?"

"Just mild queasiness." He grins.

"So you're like a medical Einstein, huh." Comes more a statement than question.

"This is the next big thing in infectious disease… since the eradication of smallpox… but slower… and with less publicity."

"And those impossible cases I heard you were solving?"

"Those were just for fun." House states off-handed.

An explosion of laughter reverberates through the room. "You really are something, Doc." He giggles.

Even in dead eyes there is a sparkle of laughter, lips curved to a smug smile.

Full hour later House is belly down and clammy with discomfort kept hidden, an arm hanging off the edge of bed, as Clarence kneads his muscles through the pajamas the way Ingrid showed him - grab, pull, release - while moving from one tendon to the next than back up.

"All done, Doc." Clarence pulls away, spine snapping loudly as he himself stretches. "Bath or shower?"

"Scrub." House, propped on left palm, pushes up to roll on one side, legs hauled to the edge so he can drag himself up the headboard and finally sits up. By the time he is done, the chair is already nearby. Moving from bed to chair, House ricochets around the room till he's by the closet. He opens the old behemoth, hand moving over shelves to find tees folded next to jeans, sweats by small piles of sox and briefs. Shirts and two suits hang in the other half. "I'm a little colorblind." He reminds.

"Looks like somebody made it easy on you." Clarence sounds impressed. "Everything 's arranged from black to white. Suits and shirts left to right, the rest top to bottom."

"What colors are there?"

"Black, dark blue, dark gray, light gray, light blue, white." Clarence lists. "'Cept only dark blue and light gray suits and sweats. No gray jeans. White briefs and gray sox only."

House moves over each, assessing the feel of fabrics: cotton, linen or polyester, as well as shape and texture of buttons, linking both to the color and committing everything to memory. Finally he takes out a comfy gray sweat suit and change, dropping all of it in his lap as he moves into the bathroom.

Ground heating running all night through welcomes them to a sauna like environment.

Clothes on boxy stool, he removes the long sleeved undershirt and shoves it toward the laundry basket's corner, than peels off a small, used-up morphine patch. Pulling over by the tub, he locks the chair immobile and grabs onto the barrier half-wall between bath and toilet.

"Whoa, Doc!" Clarence grabs him in mid lift. "What 'r' you doin'?"

Turning to the intermittent light, House gives him a 'what's it look like?' expression. "Just stand by, okay?"

"All right, Doc." The man is not too pleased with the arrangement.

Plastered claw set solid against the wall, House stands up on the twisted foot of his better leg and curled up corn of the other one. Free hand undoes the knot of his drawstring pants, gravity pulling them down around his ankles. The logistics of removing the elastic-held boxers is a little more complicated, almost causing him to loose balance.

In a split second, Clarence holds him by the arms.

"Let go." House requests with unfazed voice.

Sitting on the bath rim, he lifts one leg from the ground, frees it of the clothes and hauls over, rotating himself inside in the process. Grabbing hold of the shower head stall, he lowers himself on the bath seat. Seated with a huff, he seeks out and turns the hot water on full blast, feeling his skin turn red under the jet as the protest of once-torn tendons quiets down.

"What did Jimmy make?" He ends the comfortable silence just because.

"Peanut butter and jelly, I think."

"Good." Comes an ambiguous reply. A soft brush loaded with shower cream enables him to reach every spot despite limitations from achy joints, and also to clean up without having to feel over countless scars.

"What do you say we head for the park and study?" Clarence suggests. "Streets should be empty since everyone's working. No oglers or anything. I'll push if you can't wheel."

House pauses, elbows on knees, back still hunched from lack of muscle tone. "Sounds good. There's a stand with great Reubens just outside campus. We could have those for lunch."

"I'll get you some outside clothes, than." Sweat suit is swiped off the stool. "What do you wanna wear?"

"White jeans and tee, light blue shirt." He replies while rinsing. "Light hues might hide my stick-man built. On the down side I wont be able to absorb heat that good. You'll have to stick me in the sun."

"Sure thing, Doc." Clarence brushes him with a towel.

House faces the darker-on-dark blob blocking light from the bedroom. "Thanks. Got the patch?"

A small cardboard box is opened, paper torn. "Right here." Clarence taps the thing sticky-side up on Greg's waiting hand.

Seconds on application, placebo alone dulls the edge of occasional stabs. "Mmm…" House spares a moment to savor the feeling before hauling himself out. Once decent, he stands up gingerly, weight supported by hips on sync while arms are maneuvered into tee and dress shirt left unbuttoned.

Hair raked and teeth brushed, House straightens his back, fingers moving over comfortably familiar length of stubble. The calm of quiet, courageous confidence descend upon him like a promise, his heart swelling secretly . "Let's go."

* * *

_The thesis__ is possible - TED talks, Paul Ewald, Domesticating germs_


	25. Monsters in the Dark

**Monsters in the Dark**

Lightning flashes like a photographer's bulb, thunder instant and deafening, indicating a storm right above. He writhes in bed, face a scowling mask of pain.

"Try to relax, House." Wilson's voice is soothing with a backdrop of worry. "The more you move around the more you'll hurt."

"I can't." He grates out, still but tense.

"Deep breaths." A hand lands on his belly, directing focus to diaphragm and away from ribs, their aching joints, tendons and mended fractures. "Slow."

"Not … working." House manages between pants.

"House, I can't give you another shot. You're maxed out already."

"It's never been like this." Words escape clenched teeth. "Not since - " A silent gasp robs him of voice.

"I know." Sympathetic words provide little relief. "Weather channel said we haven't had a storm so bad in a decade."

House snorts tear-eyed. "That'll make me better."

"Don't talk, House." Wet terry cloth dabs at his forehead.

Nostrils flare and cheeks puff as he pants, quicker and quicker till he's frozen breathless. Released of the immediate agonizing grip, he moans. "Put me under." The voice is small and whimpery. "Please."

Wilson sighs. "Okay. Okay…"

House feels a rubber band rolled up his arm, biceps gripped tight until the veins are so big he thinks they will burst at the slightest prick.

"I'll monitor your condition for another half hour. The phone is on the nightstand, my pager is speed dial one. Call if you need anything. Anything at all."

He nods.

Needle breaks skin.

House observes his mind turn to a syrupy substance, sweet and sticky, snaring thoughts and silencing agony. "Thank you." He slurs out on a whisper as the void envelops him.

Emptiness gives to the feeling of his left brain's incessant, analytical chatter shutting down, boundary between self and surroundings dissolving under onslaught of sensations fighting for attention in a consciousness bereft of filters, totally exposed, their immediacy pushing aside a lifetime of baggage and concern of consequences, erasing past and future to make place for the now, and oh what a moment it is, a sea of torturous touches in high definition reality, crystal clear and stark as over-saturated colors, leaving afterimages in wake that melt to myopic infusing pleasure, urgency of need feeding an insatiably growing hunger, an addictive torment inflating his mind till he is taunt with unbearable tension of mixed exhilaration and yearning, bursting like a supernova with a zillion shards launched into the void that coalesce to a soft tremble, solidifying to unconscious stillness under a soothing white-noise shushing and stroking, rocking waves.

When next he comes to, humiliation over the mess in his bed is not the worst thing he feels.

_'It's just a dream.' _He tells himself. _'A drug induced hallucination. An overdue release. Just like the first time. First time… Means there was more than one.'_

_'Of course there was more than one.' _His argumentative, coldly calculating side cuts in. _'There weren't many real-life opportunities in prison.'_

_'This was regular.' _He recalls, now that the opiate is waning. _'On very bad days, when I'd make use of the drug stash Arnello provided. Same thing over and over: unbearable pain, a morphine pill goodnight, unspecified wet dream, morning mess... Routine.'_

_'Except that one time…'_ A vague memory surfaces shyly. _'There were details by the end. Full lips and manicured hands. And eyes...' He grasps for details. 'Deeply set big brown yes, under thick, dark brows.'_

_'Wilson?'_

_'Was I dreaming of Wilson?'_

_'Why would I?'_

_'I was plastered. It didn't matter anyway. Probably my subconscious projecting a personification of comfort, of comfort-ing. Must be it.'_ House defies his gut feeling for a moment, until a better explanation appears to him, one that feels right.

_'It was Arnello. He provided the drugs. The comfort of being pain free. My drugged out mind must have thrown him in by accident.'_ He feels at ease.

It was good to have a mob boss for cell mate. Someone who was not a dumb brute. Someone to have an intelligent conversation with, a gripping chess round. Someone with an actual taste in music. Someone with connections to both guards and inmates. Someone who could get medication as needed. Most of all someone who was not a sick perv.

House knows he was easy pickings, knew it all along. _'How did Arnello put it - baby blues that can't run?'_ It was good to enjoy Arnello's protection. Everyone treated him like the mobster's pet. He knew better. They were cell mates, buddies. And Arnello's resemblance to Jimmy probably sped their befriending.

But it would have come easy enough. They were two cultured men out of their elements. Naturally they gravitated to each other. They had to look after one another.

Well, Arnello was doing more of the looking after. He had more influence. Enough influence to get Thompson off him, if only temporary. _'I was damn lucky to end up with-'_

House swallows hard as something occurs to him.

_'I was lucky, but Arnello didn't need luck. Could have hand-picked out any cell mate he wanted. But why me? What would he gain?'_

Doubt festers.

_'Same as me - good company.'_

The rationalization leaves him unsatisfied. _'I wasn't good company when I got in. Only became normal when I started to believe that no one would abuse me with him around.'_ House remembers doubting Arnello at first, but it was true - the lawyer never showed up while Arnello was inside.

_'There was another lawyer…'_ His memory reminds. _'His kid brother, the one that didn't want Arnello out. The one that looked at me like he didn't know if I was the best or worst thing that ever happened. They talked about contracts too. And sales and deals, with mob clans and feds-'_ House rubbs at temples, details escaping him.

Clarence's words from a few day's back crash to his mind. Thompson was suspected of killing a boss of the Arnello clan for planning to testify against him.

Suddenly House knows what Arnello got out of it, with certainty of knowing his own name. Anguish grips him, his heart aching as he feels physically ill.

What Thompson had that Arnello wanted was him.

_'He bought the contract in exchange for silence. Bought me.'_ He bites on a fist, resisting the urge to vomit. _'Baby blues that can't run.'_ The words come back to mock him. _'I _was _his pet. His mate. And not in the Ausie way-'_ Greg's breath hitches. _'That's why the eyes… Oh, god - I woke up. That's when he left. That's when it stopped. And the lawyer - Fuck!'_ His eyes water up.

Heels of palms press against bloated lids closed tight in an attempt to force the tears back, geometric patterns strobing over retinas like seizure-inducing videos.

_'Damn it!' _Plastered hand slams into mattress. He sniffles, sleeve wiping off escaping fluids. _'He was the first new guy I trusted! He was supposed to be the good guy…'_ Eyes shut, two streaks darken a path down his temples.

He lies awake long after, waiting for his face to return to non-crying appearance before rolling around in slow, torturous moves, remnants of opiate fighting against low pressure system still hovering around. Pushing both pillows off the bed he crawls to the ground, head and chest landing safely in their fluf. He writhes out of dirty clothes and pulls the tangled sheet down to wipe himself clean before balling both up and pushing them as deep in the corner as he can.

Closet door pried open, a series of small yanks retrieve the tightly folded spare cover from the bottom of the coat-hanger section, each tug an odd echo of blades jammed in his shoulder. Heavy down engulfs him, wrapped to a ball around one pillow with another under his head. The cocoon of safety does little to comfort him, heart and mind going mile a minute, unable to rest.

First light arrives with early workmen diving up the street, trash and delivery trucks banging every few feet. Only when muffled, blasé sounds of boring, mediocre life bring constant reassurance of safety does sleep finally find him.


	26. Among Friends

**Among Friends  
**

"House!" Wilson's shocked shout startles him awake and groaning. Steps race, tapping louder, floor shaking ever forceful.

"What happened?" Shoes squeal at his ear under crouching weight,

"Nothing." House grumbles half aware, his shoulder gripped through comforter.

"Are you all right?"

"Lemme sleep."

"A minute till I fix your bed." Wilson allows in a somewhat stern tone. "Ingrid is going to be here any minute."

Soles on floor precede the noise of fabric being handled in the near corner, than an unexpected chucle. "This is great, House." Smiles Wilson as he walks to the bathroom. "Means your downstairs are in working order." Ball of fabric lands unfurled in the other room.

'I'd rather have upstairs.' House complains to himself.

Hinges squeal as the oncologist retrieves spare bedding, cloth shaken spread with the noise of a flapping banner coming from Greg's other side, followed by sound of stuff jammed against straining old wood. Finally an arm rolls House on the back, feathery buffer shielding his jutting joints from direct pressure of the hard surface. The cover slips aside, exposing bare legs and than some. If Wilson is affected he does not express it. Bare skin goose bumps in seconds and House tries to cover himself but halts almost instantly, muscles back at him with a vengeance for the recent bathroom escapade.

"Let's get you decent." Wilson is neutral.

Gray orbs stare aimlessly upward into a featureless hue while he is being dressed, emotional discomfort at utter helplessness building gradually.

"On three." Wilson takes him under upper back and knees. "One, two…"

The world moves unsteadily around him, younger man lacking Clarence's strength. Even so, House is laid carefully on the soft-foam mattress, never once fearing a fall.

Wilson sits at his side with a huff. "Think you'll stay in bed today?"

"Depends on Ingrid."

Speak of the devil - the bell buzzes. With a tap on Greg's hand Wilson is gone to greet the masseuse. Short distance between her tapping feet tells of a stout woman.

"Hello, Greg." The good natured Valkyerie greets her old acquaintance.

"Gutten tag." He replies half-mockingly with equal ease, years of association with pain relief creating an automatically positive mood in him.

"Where does it hurt?" Ingrid's fingertips feel his underdeveloped musculature for signs of stiffness.

"All over."

"He stood on his feet - rod straight - just to see if he could." Wilson elaborates from the corner, a hint of chiding in his delivery. "Lost a day of workout to impatient curiosity."

"Well did you succeed?" She inquires eagerly and shakes his calf.

"Oh yeah…" A beatific grin sprawls over his face.

"So. Where is it worst?"

"Thigh." 'duh...' He directs her efforts, winching as she digs in. But moments later a low hum of pleasure is coaxed out on a sigh. A purr rumbles deep in his chest, deft fingers kneading the cramp away like so much thick dough. "Play me 'Seasons', willya Jimmy."

Without word of reply a click sounds from the player and two small speakers, square on either nightstand, come alive with a vibrant, bird-like string solo. Second violin soon joins in a musical dialogue of avian style. House is barely aware of Wilson's departure, lost between the double pleasure of music and ministrations. The piece moves to its second, slower segment, sending his sleep deprived mind to a light nap.

Ingrid's cough-like cover-up for chuckle brings him back to the momentarily silent room.

"What?"

"You snored." Her tone is laughter.

He makes a 'so what face' as she cautiously rolls him over, and nestles his head back into the pillow. Lips licked and rounded, one tertza deeper harmonies are whistled to the serene light-heartedness of a modern operatic song, a method of making music better than any his body can currently come up with.

On the chorus, Ingrid adds her surprisingly clear voice to the instrumental variant of a familiar song.

House falls silent for the time of her singing, mouth agape with awed wonder. Second verse leaves her to quiet work.

"I had no idea you could sing." He whispers.

"You never asked." She answers friendly. "Do you?"

House smiles. "Bocelli I ain't." He winks. "Any other languages you speak?"

She giggles. "I don't even know Italian. I sing by ear."

"Why didn't you sing the English parts?" He is confused.

"Italian is more melodic." Her hands ease his deltoids.

He pouts thoughtfully. "I could teach you."

"Italian?"

"Italian, Spanish, Portugese…" House mumbles against the pillow. "Pick a song and I'll translate it."

"Next time 'Nesun dorma'."

"I'll try not to." He smirks, phone ringing and shutting up. "That's Clarnece."

True enough the man's distinct knocking is heard, followed by the twist of a spare key. "Hi, Ingrid."

"Morning, Clarence."

"Doc."

"Hey."

"I'll see myself out." She offers good naturedly. "Take it easy, House."

He grins. "Yes mommy."


	27. Believe You Me

**Believe You Me**

Lodged between fireplace and bookshelf, a sweats clothed House rests in the curves of his woven recliner, the down beneath him a warm comfort and protective barrier from stiff squares. His blind eyes gaze in the direction of the tiny lobby, nose expecting a whiff of pine to drift across the room.

"Good morning doctor House." A thirty-something Cajun baritone greets.

"Agent Miles." House whispers a formal welcome. "Take a seat."

"Thanks." The man walks over, a squeal to his gait.

"Sneakers…" House sounds thoughtful as his head follows their pace. "Civilian clothes. Thank you."

Agent stops moving at the sofa.

"For the effort of keeping my location secret."

"You're welcome." The man sits across the coffee table, throw slipping. Leather rubs against itself as the man attempts to fix the thing.

"Forget it." Wilson speaks from his watch-post by the windows.

The fussing falls silent.

"You'll have to forgive the disturbing look of my eyes." House addresses the guest. "I'm not giving up what little use I have left of them for other people's comfort."

"Of course not."

"Good." He nods curtly.

Miles clearing his throat. "I understand detective Lopez is keeping you informed on the trials."

"You came here for another interview?"

"No." The agent takes a pregnant pause. "Among Thompson's hidden files we found a large amount of video records. Of you."

House stiffens, a breath sucked in hard and silent, frozen inside him. "Knew they were monitoring." He's back to skipping the personal pronoun. "Didn't think they recorded."

"I was thinking… If you plan on testifying you'll have to appear at four trials."

House takes a moment to do the math. "Prison doctor, Police shrink, commanding officer at death row and other guards in a joint trial."

"That's right. And all the TV companies and papers will have reporters waiting in ambush."

He squints. "What are you suggesting?"

"Let the jury, and only the jury, see one recording in a closed-doors viewing. Same one for every trial."

"Damage control in case they leak." Wilson follows the reasoning.

"I promise to personally oversee the handling of those records, make sure they _don't_ get to the press."

House takes a steadying breath. "What do you need?"

"An act of serious abuse involving all of the accused. Something that can be held against all of them, and that will maximize their chance of convict-"

"Maximise!?" Greg's knitted bows are high with angry confusion. "There's no question of who did this to me or why!"" His arms move expressively, directing attention to the broken body.

Miles sighs. "Their defense is that they believed you're a sociopath, not caring about whether your patients died, killing people to hide your addiction, escaping prison only to attack again..."

House snorts angrily.

"Tell me about it." Wane humor is heard in the agent's tone. "I know you'd like not to touch on some things but the worst you can name, the bigger their sentence will be."

House turns to the shade lighter windows, all too real sensations pouring back:

Cuffs scraping skin as heartless hands force him belly down, deft blade doing away with clothes, burlap bag removed from his head so he can be shaved bald, hair shockingly pale.

Limbs chained together, body arched supine to expose the sensitive front, knife tip sliding from throat over chest and abdomen, all the way down - fear a feral beast eating at his innaeds.

The glint of sharp metal passing from guard to doctor, alcohol cold over his privates.

A shudder runs up his spine at the memory of a shrill scream detonating, animalistic groans expelled through clenched teeth, gauze irritating recently shielded flesh in the wake of agony.

Needle prick making spider webs branch in his mind, reasoning skills forfeiting dominion to bare emotions.

Thompson's accusing voice triggering reflex shame, digging up every patient lost, every wounding truth spoken, every parental expectation failed. Old wounds cut open to fester with overpowering guilt.

Screech of metal on concrete, loud clatter of ice cubes, hair sticking up like attentive soldiers, mind in paralyzing terror. Fists hauling him by the forearms as knees scrape floor, blood red and stinging.

Modern mix of orchestral symphony, Gregorian chant and hard rock drumming come together, stomach plummeting at the tones of a favored song. Chorus hiting as he is thrown in, icicles stabbing everywhere. Lighting flashing in short-circuted nerves of mangled thing, eyes and mouth wide with agony beyond screaming.

Thompson towering above, reciting the apostol's creed. His own voice shouting "Bullshit!"againt reason, truth serum destroying self control.

Throat in death grip, his head is submerged, jerking side to side to escape the hold. Violent thrashing, arms pulling up againt people bearing down. Vision shrinking like old TV shut off in slo-mo.

Coughing. Water sputtering out and lungs friezing.

Begging, pleading voice protesting against having to repeat the words he does not buy, unable to stop himself. Another dunk.

The melodic chant of Latin lyrics flying his nerves an atom at a time.

Repeating doubt with ever weaker conviction, own arguments for disbelief used against him - a series of questions with contradictory answers. Hours melting to a blur of pain and fear, physical and otherwise, of inconsistent dogma shoved down his throat and of pleas to be spared regurgitating it.

Hearing someone strange recite the creed by heart, like a zombie.

Himself.

With a shake of head the void expression of recollection is cast off, morphing to numb sorrow as House closes his dry eyes. "Have they recorded brainwashing?"

"Yes." Answers the agent.

"If that doesn't get them locked up for life, nothing will."

"Allright." Comes a belated answer, as if the agent nodded having forgotten his blindness. Miles stands up. "Do you want to be present on their sentence hearings?"

House stares out. "I'll think about it."

"Goodbye Gentlemen." Miles heads out, Wilson right behind him.

When the two friends are left alone, the younger man walks over softly, shoes squealing under crouching weight. "House?" Affectionate hand meets one clutching armrest. "What did they do?"

"They tried to convert me." He answers dully, thoughts distant in space and time. "Convince me I'm a blaspheming sinner heading for hell, deserving everything punishment I get. Convince me they would fix me and have me be grateful for it." Bitterness oozes from him.

"Did you believe them?" Wilson asks cautious.

House inhales deeply. "For a time."

"What changed you back?"

"The realization that Thompson didn't believe it himself, that no one does. Not really." He sounds certain.

"What do you mean? _I _believe."

"If he believed his kid was in heaven, he would thank me for sparing her decades of disappointments, betrayals, failures, injuries, illness and what not. He punished me because deep down he knew she's just dead, nothing more." Blind eyes turn to Wilson. "If people really believed death is a one way ticket to utopia, immediate or eventual, no one would cry at funerals."

"You know, maybe this happened to you for a reason." Wilson ignores the argument. "Looking back, it could be argued that God used you to bring down the two biggest mafia clans in Jersey."

"Like he used Joseph to save Egypt from famine?" House snorts, amused and insulted. "First – I'm no biblical character. Second - I'd rather believe in a god so big he doesn't even notice us, than one that dumb and brutal."

"What?" Wilson's hiss is quiet but intense.

"He didn't need either of us in jail." House's voice rises. "Joseph could have earned his reputation as a free man and just be at the right place in the right time to give pharaoh the explanation." He makes a point. "And if a benevolent entity had any significant influence on humans, there wouldn't be organized crime to begin with." The declaration is just as true. "Any decent plan would involve several willing heroes working together, only a sicko would use an unwilling victim." He spats.

"You can't-"

"I'm not a hero." House practically yells. "I didn't choose your lives over mine. It was an occasional beating versus loosing both my friends. A little more physical pain would be nothing compared to potential emotional loss. When it became unbearable I couldn't force myself to end it because that would make whatever I already endured pointless. Every new abuse made it that much harder to give up. I didn't do it for you." His voice is harsh.

Struck by the force of Greg's irreverent arguments and callous confession, Wilson is oblivious to the fact the older man has just stood up for himself, and so walks away with the pounding of a passive-aggressive gait, door closing behind him a shade louder than necessary.


	28. Blood Brothers

**Blood Brothers**

The first thing he is aware of is the unnerving feel of throat collapsed around a solid, round form, and the unnaturalness of lungs inflated and deflated with mechanical evenness. Hard foam is dipped slightly underneath him, creases of a plastic foil leaving impressions in bare skin. The air is tepid over his body, exposed but for the patch of large, rectangular cloth over his hips and crotch. A tire-track of cold moisture runs from the collar bones down, fine hairs prickled upright. Clack of metal on metal echoes through abundant ethanol fumes.

Facts fall in line, a dreaded conclusion forming – exploratory surgery.

Sensing the lack of restraints his mind scampers to flight, but flaccid muscles refuse obedience, limbs immobile like doll arms with their strings cut off. Even lids remain closed despite the full force of willpower, as if glued. Visceral horror takes over House, locked helpless inside his own body.

Half an inch of sharp, cold metal makes contact with his chest, a drop of heat appearing around it.

_No, please, don't, please, no, plea­­-_

Drum-piercing scream jolts him awake, nightmare turning to hallucination as he is met with blindness and hearing on the other side also, head pressed into a cushion of similar resistance. He hollers in anguish, still feeling the sternum broken for the purpose of inhumane curiosity. Free to express the overwhelming agony, vocal cords fail under impossible strain as abysmal sounds escape.

Lost in the painful memory, House is oblivious to Wilson's desperate calls, fists gripping his arms to shake him out of it. Voiceless screams die down to puffed grunts and groans, arms wrapped protectively over a doubled-over abdomen. Only than does he become aware of friendly hands encircling his shoulders and comforting words whispered to his ear.

"It's okay, House. It's okay. You're safe now. They can't hurt you now. It's okay."

House straightens up only to pull the other man closer, the way his grip crumples a crisply pressed shirt screams of desperate terror. It doesn't matter. Broken voice allowing, he would have said it out loud anyway.

"I'm sorry about arguing with you." Wilson is quiet, regretting. "It was moronic of me to take Thompson's side."

House makes neither move nor sound.

"I'm glad you argued back, you know." He smiles. "You have no idea how much I've missed that."

The tightening hug seams to say 'You neither.'

"You've been napping a lot lately." Wilson wanders cautiously. "Had a siesta after every meal. You haven't done that since you left the hospital." He hesitates. "This isn't your first nightmare, is it?"

House shakes his head 'No.'

"Having trouble falling asleep at night?"

He nods 'Yes.'

"Know how your birthday is coming up?" Wilson changes the topic.

Another nod.

"I was thinking about getting you an assistance dog." He sends out a feeler.

House waits for more info.

"They can train Labs to do just about anything these days. You wouldn't be so dependant on other people any more. … That might help you get over some insecurities. … It could even be your watchdog. Maybe even a guide until the corneas arrive. … That way you could start exploring the neighborhood on your own. Of course not immediately. … Is that okay with you?"

House nods.

"I'll call the trainers right away." The younger man pulls away and goes to the phone.

"Ulsn." Comes a croaked call.

Wilson turns back. "What is it?"

'_I sorry too.'_ House signs poorly but adequately with his limited, baby vocabulary. _'I had no say true. I __**had**__ do it for you people.' _Hands move expressively despite limited fingers._ 'If not I stop eat and drink when pain be very bad. Would no care for you. But- I had need to hear I am very good person before. Now I have need to say I had not start good. I sorry for it.'_ He looks down ashamed.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, House." He walks back and sits on the ottoman. "And you have nothing to be humiliated about. This isn't pity, it's gratitude. Whatever we do for you, you've earned it a hundred times over. Okay?"

House nods, looks up. _'Go to woman.'_

"Would you stop worrying about me and Irene already." Wilson speaks amused. "If she doesn't get that there would not have been us without you than she isn't the right woman for me." The tone turns serious.

House rolls his eyes. _'I no **worry**. __I no want you give up life. __I had do it for you people to live. Do no make it for no thing.'_ Milky eyes plead.

Wilson takes the chattering hand in his, placing one over his right, shaped like a pointer, and holding it there with the other. The extended index finger makes a large X over his left chest pocket.


	29. Kindred Spirits

**Kindred Spirits**

"You nervous, Doc?" Clarence places a hefty paw on House's shoulder.

Lanky man sits up straighter on the wheeled stool Wilson 'borrowed' from the clinic, his muscle tone finally sufficient for upholding own body weight. Clammy sweat is rubbed from open palm over the rough denim jeans. "Guards employed German Sheppard's." He admits.

"This one is a Retriever." Wilson reassures.

Noise of building's door opened is only audible to House. "They're here."

On the sound of buzzing bell, Wilson allows someone in. "Hello miss Costello." He greets.

"Please call me Maggie." Answers a genuinely friendly soprano. "You must be Greg."

House winces at the sudden shift from absolute strangers to first name basis. "Please call me doctor House." He returns.

"Oh." Maggie appears surprised, upset perhaps. "Sorry."

"Why don't you, ah, introduce the two…" Wilson breaks the odd moment.

"Of course. Come Goldie." She guides the dog in, a quartet of paws tapping rhythmically over hardwood. "Heel."

Tapping stops at his feet.

"Sit. Good girl." Maggie praises. "Doctor House, this is Goldie. Goldie this is doctor House. Give him your paw."

A furry limb lands on his knee, House feeling idiotic for shaking the dog's leg, a gesture of no significance among usually unarmed humans, let alone between a human and animal.

"Would it be okay if she sniffs you out?"

He nodds.

"Sniff doctor House, Goldie."

The dog brushes at the hem of trouser leggings, suddenly hopping on Greg's thighs, warm breath blown in his face.

"NO!"

Wilson's warning comes to late as House flinches in startled fear. Arms up to protect his head in a split second, cast striking the dog's jaw. Balance gone, Clarence's strong hold is the only thing keeping him from falling over on his back. Weight is gone form his legs as whimpery yelps cower behind the sofa. House pushes against the armchair, propelling himself into the kitchen.

"Come back, House." Wilson follwos after him. "It's just an accident, no big deal."

Hose huffs but tries again, returning slowly, a look of apology on his face.

"It's okay, mister." There's nothing negative in Maggie's tone. "She was more surprised than hurt."

Sniffing is back in Greg's immediate vicinity. Eager panting repeats itself like a broken record from below House's feet, so close to the ground he can just picture it leaning on front paws, tail a hairy banner waving joyous in the air. The thing's eagerness to serve brings back chilling memories.

"No." A gravely whisper breaks impatient silence, and he can well imagine their responses: Wilson's exasperated roll of eyes, Clarence's brief 'told you so' glance, and the trainee's indifferent shrug.

"I'm sorry to waste your time." Wilson guides Maggie to the door, Goldie in tow.

"That's all right. Hope you find a match, sir." The young woman addresses House.

He nods, arm raised in farewell. Greetings are exchanged between other people but he is too far gone in defeatist thoughts to take notice. Finally a clang of bolt marks the closing of door.

"That's the seventh dog you refused." Wilson's patience is dangerously frail.

"Stop looking for eager to please." Blind man's stare punctuates the hoarse reply.

"They're eager by nature, they're hand picked that way." Wilson insists. "And the training emphasizes that trait."

"It's too damn… unnatural." He replies. "I want something real. Something that doesn't feel… brainwashed."

"How bout we train one ourselves?" Clarence suggests.

House recalls a pup he and some other army brats once took care of at Al Qahirah airbase, its playful nature drawing his self deprecating streak to the fore. He feels himself unable to inflict his barely sane reactions on something with such zest for life and so shakes his head.

"What, you want to pick one from the kennel?" Wilson is sarcastic.

The thought, never occurring to House, suddenly strikes him with absolute appropriateness. "Yes."

"You can't be serious."

"It won't hurt to look?" Clarence mediates.

"I suppose not." Wilson agrees, fetching the car keys. "I'll drive over, you get the wheel chair." He directs while leaving.

Very soon, House is riding in the back seat, Wilson driving and Clarence shotgun. The trip is shorter than he expects, only a few minutes to the heart of downtown. Settled in the unfolded chair, House is wheeled up a bumpy step by the large orderly, feet platforms pushing the double doors open.

"What can I do for you gentlemen?" Speaks a mature, polite baritone.

"We came to see some dogs." House takes over the matter.

"I'm afraid none of these are suited for seeing-eye work."

"I was thinking more of a guard dog." He counters.

"In that case we have two, no, three animals you might like."

"Show me."

Hinges squeal as the man steps out, the frequency and pitch of taps indicative of medium height and weight. "Having trouble with paparazzi?" The keeper inquires casually, informing that he had recognized House but also that he has no intention of bugging him.

"Among other things." House does not volunteer info as he tags along, but is grateful to have run into a sane person.

"This is a two year husky." The man explains. "He's got great character, trained to obey basic commands, noting special for handicapped I'm afraid. Good smell and hearing as far as watchdog abilities go."

"How did he get here?" Wilson is curious.

"A family brought him in after realizing he's to big for their tastes. Happens too many times."

House nods with approval. "Next one?"

"Dalmatian and Great Dane hybrid. A stray, probably thrown out as a pup by a professional breeder. In all honesty it does look hideous."

"I don't mind." House states off-handed.

"Totally untrained unfortunately, but if all you need is someone to scare away potential threats, a little care will make this one utterly loyal. Plus she's got the Dalmatian's good health."

"Are Danes those massive dogs?"

"Tall, but not massive."

"Maybe something a bit more intimidating."

"Last one is a poorly trained Mastiff." The keeper is regretful, having spent the best first. "He's accustomed to boss around and for you… I don't think that will work."

House blows a raspberry half way between frustrated and resigned. Then his ears pick up a set of heavy paws on concrete, but the eager barking coming from its direction is not deep as one would expect for a dog that big. "Do you have any others?" He asks with no expectations.

"Well…" The keeper is not too happy to reply. "We have one no one was interested in."

"Not a cute little pup?" Infers House.

"More like huge nervous beast." He explains.

The description strikes a chord in House. "Show me."

"Whatever you say." His tone is all but enthusiastic.

House grabs the wheels and follows the grating of sneakers on gravel, Clarence and Wilson in tow. As the man stops, he stops too, but can't hear a sound from the cage. "Description."

"One year old Saint Willey male. Saint Bernard and Rottwiler. Six feet long from nose to tail tip, five in body length, three feet tall in the head, two at the spine, two hundred pounds, bone crushing bite and hair-trigger nerves."

House squints. "Abused?"

"Owner brought him in to be put to sleep for biting him. Turned out the dog was trained for fighting but his docile nature clashed with the task. When he finaly grew sick of the abuse, he attacked in self defense. But he's never been anything but harmless since coming here."

"Why would anyone breed a Saint Bernard for fighting?" Wilson is confused.

"Probably for mass, poor guy was fed steroids from what we can tell."

"His response…" House leans the head to the wall of cages. "Fight or flight?"

"Frieze. Can't you hear?"

"Just making sure." House 'looks' to his lap, thoughtful. "Open the cage." He spins in place to face the cell.

"Sir?"

"Doctor." Calmly he corrects. "Open."

Clack of locket precedes rumble of little metal wheels. The dog itself makes no sound, no move.

"Behind me." House orders quietly. "Everyone."

"House -"

"Hush!" He turns to Wilson.

Footsteps retreat, Clarence directly behind, feet apart as he stands poised like a body guard, Wilson and keeper at the giant's flanks.

"Asustado?" House asks the dog if he's afraid, face and eyes both aimed straight ahead, a foot above the animal to avoid a frightering or challenging stare. "No se. No soy peligroso." He assures there is no danger. "Soy inofensivo, desamparado."

House can only assume curiosity and bewilderment from the other three men, but there is a method to his excentric approach. The dog had only bad experiences with English, a hard, Germanic language, so maybe a soft Romanic one would break the spell, set the slate clean for a fresh start.

And just as he hopes, paws clack on concrete as the dog stands up in its cage, turning to him.

"Necesito ayuda." He admits need. "Usted ayudad?" The tone beckons.

The dog steps forward hesitantly, sniffing his feet and wheelchair, wet nose brushing hands still on steel rings. Paws land on blanket draped knees as the dog comes face to face with House, unsanitary breath blown to his nose.

With geological slowness House brings his hands from the rings. "Relajese." Knuckles meet lower jaw, closed tense. Up the bone he moves, careful to avoid sensitive areas like eyes and neck. Bony fingers of one hand scratch behind upright ears, making them droop in relaxation. The other strokes along spine, feeling scars from whip lashing under long, thick fur. "What does it look like?" House asks, nigh all attention given to the animal.

"Pretty nice really. Black back and head, except for white muzzle and brown stains between. White paws, shins and belly. Brown thighs and tail. White tail tip. Almost like an over-grown Beagle."

House grins a little. "Perfecto."


	30. Man of the Hour

**Man of the Hour**

Quartet of paws clacks a trotting beat of claws on hardwood, loud barks warning of a stranger on the other side of the door.

"Calmate." House speaks in reassuring tones as he propels in the direction of the lobby, his right reaching under the mane of neck and up to hover inches from the muzzle. "Sielncio." The word is whispered in a floppy ear, and the dog goes from assertive to attentive.

"Stacy." He greets with certainty of a seeing man. A push off the wall sends him arching away, door swung open. "Come in."

"Hello everyone." She enters.

A murmur of responses rises from the overcrowded living room.

"What gave me away?"

"My smell and hearing are second only to Cujo's."

"Interesting name. Can I pet it?"

"Him. And no. He's nine parts bodyguard, one part pet."

"All right. Wilson can you put this somewhere for now?"

"Sure." Loafers slap over and move away.

The sound of a box or bag being handed over is peculiarly absent, as it were all the other times before. House senses a surprise coming but says nothing about it. Instead he spins in place to face the guests. "Wanna see some tricks?"

All it takes to control a dog is a show of confidence and competence, so House fakes it, hoping in time they will become genuine. Turning the dog's head up to his House orders 'Quedar.' in a calm, insistent tone, before propelling himself to the storage.

Cujo remains in place, only the sound of moving from seated to standing heard over the murmur of interested people.

House opens the closet and fishes out a single dry treat. "Venido." He holds out one in a closed hand.

Cujo trots over, sniffing the palm, and gets a vigorous rub as reward.

"Sientese." Hand moves up and behind the dogs head and, as the nuzzle follows, Cujo naturally sits. Another rub is given. "Bueno. Abajo." The man bends over, fist lowering to the ground and under Cujo's chest until he plops down completely. "Buen perro. Ruede." Hand with bait spins behind head, forcing a roll over. "Muy bueno." The treat is lifted, House sitting up straight. "Soporte."

Naturaly Cujo is up on all four and finaly the hand opens to release the treat.

A spontaneous standing ovation breaks, making the dog freeze at Grag's feet.

"Calmate. Esta bien." Plaster claw hooked to the collar keeps Cujo in place should the unusual occurrence cause alarm. He strokes over head and mane of neck, feeling the ears go from scared flaccid to loosely relaxed. "Son amigos. Son felices." With a slight pat on the dog's ribcage he moves across the room.

Cujo does not need to be told anything to follow as the sea of people step aside for them, Greg trading stool for armchair. The dog drops at his side and enjoys an occasional scratch behind floppy ear while playing the role of white noise generator, teeth gnawing on bone. Smell of raw, beef kibbles mixes with licking sounds as the dog is distracted by excavating the stuffed, thawing treat.

From the sea of sound House picks up Wilson's voice standing by. "Get the cake."

"Right away." Wilson moves to the kitchen.

Soon enough refrigerator thumps, paraffin evaporating to fill the room.

_"Happy birthday to you."_ The makeshift, tone deaf and out-of-sync choir picks up members and volume. _"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear House. Happy birthday to you!"_ Heat floats over, hovering before him.

Again House restrains Cujo with a rub of hand curled tight around neck. In several long breaths he blows out dozens of candles, scouting the remaining ones by passing his hand over the cake in search of hot spots. Finding a few, he blows them too with precision strikes, earning a standing ovation of applause and a few whistles. This time the dog is okay with the noise.

"Thank you. Thank you." He bows left and right, pretending to a successful entertainer. "Now be good and share." He holds the cake up, Clarence taking it away.

House is content to be temporarily forgotten, listening in on the numerous conversations passed among his closest circle as the cake is cut, silverware zinging on ceramic. Mom trades recipes with Wilson, dad and Bennett try to one up each other in fly-fish catches, Foreman and Clarence mock Aussie customs and more such benign banter.

Minutes later when the paraffin and smoke have cleared and a plate is placed in his lap, House picks up the aroma of strawberry and vanilla. Egg based sweet makes his guts launch a violent revolt as they remembers the guard's birthday surprise - getting his favored sweet after a month of starvation, infected with salmonella.

"Take it away." He mumbles, fist over mouth in an attempt to keep his lunch down.

"House?" Stacy is baffled. "Are you all right?"

Eyes closed, House forces himself to nod. _Not gonna puke_. He tells himself. _Haven't had a bite, no need to feel nauseous._

"Clarence." He grates between deep, steadying breaths, Cujo on his knees and whimpering worriedly.

"Doc?"

"Toilet. Fast."

Big arms scoop him up bridal stile, pounding of feet quick as he is carried off, dog hot on their heels. House feels his stomach rise to the throat as he is swung around repeatedly, once to the hall and again in the bathroom. A kick sends the door shut, Cujo barking urgent over muffled voices, concerned and curious. Brought down by the orderly's kneel House grips the toilet, emptying himself. Scrambled eggs are a sour and bitter mush in his mouth, stray bits coughed out.

"Wanna talk about it?" Clarence asks without insisting.

House shakes his head. "Water."

Carefully he is seated at the bath's far edge, hand on sync for balance. Great big mouthfuls gurgled in and out help wash the offending taste, followed by tiny sips to steady his stomach. The noise of flushing is heard, and a hissed spray of air freshener covers up the clues of mishap.

"Tell them not to eat takeaway food."

Clarence pauses a beat. "All your food is home cooked."

House looks up, face between annoyed and pleading. As interruption, doors open to a cacophony of concerned questions.

"S'okay people. Last night's egg rolls didn't sit well with him."

The crowd settles down.

"Told you not to go with spicy." Wilson chides to play along the rouse, stool shoved over.

House breathes out in relieved gratitude and. "What are ya'll staring at, I've got presents to see." He moves out, herding the people back to living room.

"Do we hit him?" Wilson asks once they're all back.

A murmur of replies, ranging from allowing to eager, ebb and retreat from the guests.

"Here." A small business card is placed in his hand.

Thumb strokes over text pressed into thick paper, finding out valuable information: Sanus Clinic, owned by one Chris Taub, surgeon, is situated in New York, specializing in reconstructive surgery. Junior partner is Lawrence Kutner, sport medicine specialist.

"Taub is a plastic surgeon turn useful." Bennett explains at Greg's confused face. "He's mostly doing athletes now, lots of messed up joints and tendons. Hank Wiggum's comeback is their work. The man is a Swiss mechanic and Parisian painter with a scalpel. If anyone can fix you, it's Chris."

"You booked my procedures with him..." House whispers, still brushing back and forth over the card, reading and re-reading.

"You wont be able to cash it in tomorrow, but when the bones heal there 'll be an OR table in the Big Apple with your name on it."

"I've forced Jersey's bean counters to foot your bills, even if it's done in another state." Stacy adds to the arrangement.

"My old 'Nam buddy co-owns a commercial airliner, private flights." John joins in. "Anytime you want to go somewhere in the states without being ogled at by half the crew and passengers..."

"I've booked us tickets at the Plaza, privacy guaranteed." Jimmy states. "And I had a talk to agent Miles about Clarence not being able to leave state. He pulled strings to get a local fed to be your civilian dressed bodyguard."

"Ingrid, Brenda and me won't be around to help, but we found a way to get involved. The Man wouldn't pay for any cosmetic procedures so we decided to chip in. Get you the first session of laser tattoo removal."

House turns to the man with growing disbelief.

"Foreman and I treated a journalist and a photographer last few years." States Chase.

"Fletcher Stone and Emma Sloan." Foreman says.

"They're both willing to take an exclusive any time you want. We figured its best you give the public what they want on your own terms before the hounds track you down."

House nods absently, feeling a bit overwhelmed by it all, so much so that Cujo, Greg's arms still about him, has stopped chewing and is now looking at him in a watch and wait attention.

"By the way, all other media have been warned - if an article, picture or clip shows up without prior permission from you directly, we sue their pants off." Stacy adds

He does not respond.

"Last but not least." Cuddy walks over to conclude. "Hospital staff passed the hat. Just a little something to speed your return to medicine." She places a big travel briefcase in Greg's lap.

Opening its many compartments, House feels over a laptop and plug-n-play Braille console, the final act of care rendering him undone. Head in hands he bursts to tears, body wracked by silent wails.

Cujo is on him immediately, muzzle poking through fingers with quiet whines.

Two strong men pull the dog off despite barks of protest, but those too are silenced as a sea of humanity engulfs House in their hands, stroking and squeezing, rubbing and patting. At the heart of it is Blythe, kneeling before him with hands around his upper body, kisses pecked at the crown.

"Oh, my boy."

"Sorry." House croaks.

"Shhh… You don't have to apologies."

"I- I don't- deserve- "

"Yes. Yes you do."

The words send him to a new torrent, and no one cares how long it takes him to release the emotion as of yet unnamed. They pull away only when he straightens, soft sniffs and sighs communicating that the worst is over.

"Thank you." He speaks with a cracking voice, hands resting in lap pushed apart by Cujo's head.

"You're welcome." Wilson's tone, calm and pleasant, ends the incident as definitely as a formal decree.

"Wanna play some checkers?" Clarence offers, not as a distraction from what just occurred but as an serendipitously fitting progression of the celebration.

"Yeah." Palm rubs nose with childish disregard of manners. "We could make it a tournament."

And so the game chest is brought, set up again and again as contenders change places in a natural flux, House choosing to sit it out and just enjoy the show. The moves are spoken out loud in notation for his benefit, and his occasional advice, aimed indiscriminately to any and all, is never rejected nor proven unprofitable.

Hours later, after the last of the guests have trickled out, man of the hour is curled up in the armchair, drifting between sleep and wakefulness under the clatter of the apartment being cleared up.

Strong arms haul him up at some point, like a toddler exhausted by an exciting day, slight rock of footsteps quickly soothing the disruption of being moved about. Despite encroaching summer, the afghan throw descending lightly upon him is a welcome comfort. Shaggy tail coils about his feet for extra warmth, heavy body covering his legs as the big canine head nestles in the dent of his still drawn in abdomen.

Almost on reflex his hand moves to Cujo's head, resting at the side of its jaw. "Buenos noches." He mumbles dreamily, protector's presence curing his nightly restlessness. For the first time in weeks, if not years or even decades, he sleeps like a baby.


	31. Vengeance is Mine

**Vengeance is Mine**

In the empty silence, polished straight surfaces reflect loudly Clarence's rare, idle footfall, the sonar sense painting in Greg's mind a large, cavernous space. Big doors creek open way behind them, but the walls multiply the sound as if it is just behind their ears. Great acoustics, House notes on the fly, a short rest stop on the highway of frayed nerves. He hears dress shoes traversing marble aisle.

"Doctor House." The middle aged man greets, apprehension in his voice.

"Sir." The reply is bland.

"I don't know if this will mean anything to you or if you even remember. … I'm the DA."

Brow furrows minutely as he wonders what is the significance of that fact.

"I'm sorry I put you in prison."

House sighs inwardly, wishing the man kept it to himself. "Your guilt does me no good. Do your job better from now."

"You have my word." DA is solemn, and quick to pass the audience section, just beyond the low fence.

Another early bird comes on high stilettos, taking a seat opposite House. Her vicinity to the defendant's bench clearly identifying her as Bootleg's spouse.

No sooner than she settles, familiar chain rattle stirs fear inside him, a demon that can be made to retreat but never exorcised. House has to remind himself that he isn't in prison any more, that it's the chief guard who is chained here, their roles reversed. But even the position of power does not soothe him, as it is something too out there to be truly accepted.

"Duane!" Petite woman's quick strides bring her closer to the man.

"Hey…"

House can hardly believe his affectionate tone.

"Step aside Ma'am." Court officer separates the love birds.

The stench of Bootleg's - Duane's - musky sweat, however faint, turns House to a heap of knotted tension, bringing back phantom hands gripping his neck, lunch breath yelled in his face. The choking and disgusting taste, painfull shoves and throbbing pressure. House wonders how the woman would react if told that he knew her husband as much as she did. Such thoughts occupy his mind till the bare minimum of people required for the proceedings is present.

"All rise." A bailiff calls out.

House is up in a heartbeat, unsteady legs and twisted feet almost useless, hands on fence keeping him upright. Only sudden, surprised murmurs make him aware of what he just did.

Even the judge pauses in his steps. "Mister House, you are excused." The warm, aged tenor allows in a rather grandfatherly way.

Clarence's hands fall light on his shoulders, easing him back down.

"Please be seated." The judge settles. "Duane Abrams, you have been found guilty by the citizens of New Jersey for the crimes of inflicting, or aiding and abetting in the infliction, of severe physical, sexual, emotional and mental abuse. This hearing will determine the nature of your general character to aid in formation of a suitable sentence."

"Mister House, given that you are the one wronged, I'd like to hear your opinion first."

"In my opinion he's a filthy scumbag and a dipshit fucktared fag-."

"Enough!" Gavel slams,

House twitches from the noise, blind eyes aimed at Bootleg with eerie precision. "What was I?"

No reply.

"Tell them, _Duane._" House spits the last word out.

"I don't kno-"

"Tell them!" He shouts, panting from the emotional strain, mere inches form tears.

The room is so silent a fly could be heard, a needle falling.

"Duane was paid to teach me a lesson." House begins as euphemistically as possible "We had classes nightly. I'd be woken from sleep and get kicked all the way to exercise yard - wind, rain, snow - didn't matter. Than questions would begin. No win questions about my identity" He swallows. "You can't not answer to a guard, you can't talk back, you're not supposed to use first person singular. Whatever you do, you get hurt. Batons, dogs, hozes... Or you get ordered to attack the interrogator. You can either refuse to obey or you can be hostile. Either way you loose. Or you're brought to the brink of death and asked if you want to live. You want it to be over, but you know they'd just kill everyone you care for. But you're not allowed to voice a need either, because for that you'd have to say 'I'. You have to ask for it, politely, and thank afterwords, because you're a retard and they're doing you a favor."

House shuts his eyes tight. "The lesson was that I deserved the abuse. Because I was scum."

Clarence's hand is wide over his back, a conduit for comfort.

"You're a liar!" The woman leaps up. "Duane would never-"

Clarence is up a split second later, towering threateningly between her and House. "Sit. Down." He growls.

She doesn't have to be told twice.

"What do you have to say in your defense, Abrams?" The judge demands.

"I was contacted by a man who said he represented the father of the dead girl. I assumed he was talking about the woman doctor. He said ten years on taxpayer money is too good for a selfish, murderous junky. He promised to pay for my sons' college."

"Duane?" The wife is dumbstruck. "You said you took care of a white collar criminal. That he payed you for it."

"He did." House interjects. "He took real good care of me."

"Doctor House, given that you were the one harmed, it is only fair that I consult you with sentencing. Keep in mind that the state of New Jersey allows capital punishments for acts of extreme, premeditated cruelty."

"Thank you, your honor." The words come out a croaked whisper. "But death would serve no purpose. I'd like him to get life without parole in maximum security. No appeals or visits. No friends, family, shrinks or lawyers. Minimum upkeep and silent treatment."

"Would you allow my clients spiritual guidance?"

"Isolation makes it easier to commune with non-existent entities." He utters bitterly.

A chair screeches predictably. "Your honor, the state prohibits cruel and unusual punishment." Protests the defense lawyer.

House chuckles. "Your client should have thought of that before." Leaned over the desk he turns to look just behind and below that voice, to where the accused is seated. "Anytime, anywhere, anything." He returns the threat.

"Doctor…" Andrews begins in a tone of parental advice, drawing Greg's attention. "First, do no harm."

"Life without parole in the same prison I've been kept. For all the guards at death row."

"My client would be in grave danger. The prisoners he kept would attack him immediately."

"I suppose you took this into account, doctor?" Asks the judge, mildly annoyed by Greg's insistence.

House nods.

"Doctor… You of all should know what this means. They'd be sitting ducks in the general populace. And long term protective isolation would be destructive of their sanity. Surely you understand."

House casts his face down instinctively. "I do, your honor. But he doesn't." Slowly he rises to unsteady feet, hips leaned on fence. He removes the shades, fogged corneas facing the judge as crooked fingers roll up the sleeves of jacket and shirt. Hands held up like a scrubbed surgeon, he shows scar upon scar encircling the wrists.

"Last month I've seen nothing but remorse. Everyone is sorry except those guilty. They're only sorry they got caught. … I wish there was a way for me to give them my memories. Than they'd know what they did - and I could forget. I need them to know. Maybe after a few years of fear and pain they will. Than we'll talk about mercy." Finally he sits.

"Duane Abrams, I hereby sentence you to life without parole. Take him away."

Gavel slam ends the proceedings.

DA shuffles in his seat, inches from House. "Sir, one of the prison guards would like to talk to you. I think you should hear him out."

"The one who made a deal?"

"Exactly. He's in the building, waiting to testify against the doctor-"

"Don't call him a doctor." House hisses venom.

"I can arrange a meeting right now."

House nods, allowing himself to be driven to a smaller room, which he recognizes as the court's convict waiting room. He is aware only of a table, and another person moving uncomfortably on the other side, shackled. Four guards shift their weight from foot to foot in each corner of the room.

"You're the young brown guy, right. Bobby?" House states more than asks.

"Yes."

"The one that recorded stuff. You never participated."

"No."

"That's why you pleaded guilty. You wanted to have nothing with it. But you never reported it."

"I wanted to, every day. Every time they'd torture you I'd have nightmares."

House is intrigued. "What kind?"

"They'd be torturing me, and you would watch on, indifferent." He sighed. "I still have those dreams sometimes. I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't deserve it. I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry."

"Did they buy your silence?"

"They sent me a picture of my little Alice." The man admits. "Now she's the one hurt in my nightmares, and I'm watching, helpless."

House sighs. "Allison, Alice... "

"She got sick." Robert, Rob, Bobby goes on. "Nobody knew what was wrong. When she died- I overheard one of the doctors say 'if only House were here'. … I wanted to kill myself. But what good would that do." He heaves. "I remembered you were good with the other inmate so I let him see you. I hoped he would tell his lawyer something when his appeal came round but he didn't. So I looked up that thing you said he's got and staged an attack. Convinced Duane to let him out to the hospital. Told him a dead prisoner would attract attention. When we got to the hospital I wanted to tell the doctors all about you but he beat me to it."

"You want praise?" House chides.

"No. I have no right to expect it. I was a coward and I paid for it. I could have made a copy of the sessions for the feds, ask for witness protection… I'm sorry."

"You hurt other people, you get hurt." House states with detachment. "Not immediately or directly. Usually kids get the bill." He's factual but not coldly, it's more like regret.

"Yeah."

"You have nightmares of Alice and me, and I've got nightmares of Alison and you. ... You know what was worse than the pain? Knowing someone 's getting off on it. It's why I hate the media. It's just more of the same."

"I don't suppose it would make a difference if I say I'm sorry about that too."

House shakes his head, huffs. "I'll see that you get off easy." He spins around, away.

"You will?" The man is bewildered.

He pauses. "I don't care what happens to any of you. Nothing you suffer can erase what I've been through. It wont' bring back a bit of what I lost. Besides, we're already punished."


	32. Independence Day

**Independence Day**

Cell phone begins playing a guitar solo on the pillow next to Greg, drums joining in one by one as he refuses to stir. When the call of violins, turning the piece from optimistic to uplifting, causes him to reach across the bed and shut the thing up, weight lifts from his calves and a wet muzzle pokes at his face, forcing a response.

"Bien." House whispers, rolling over to his back with a groan.

Palm heels rub sleep from his eyes and he pulls himself to sit up, Cujo leaping to the hardwood floor, always at his side. House stretches, slowly, one joint at a time, from fingertips to his back, twisting and turning every which way, vertebra making tiny pops despite the faint ache.

Today's the day he's in as little pain as possible. Today is the day to try the impossible.

Push of a button starts his Latino play list, fast energetic and motivational. He moves the bedding aside before retuning to horizontal, exercising his arms by manipulating the legs. Sit-ups and push-ups follow, partial but plentiful, his face a stone mask of determination against the pain, will wagering battle against body to win back his dignity, his sanity. A carefully planed self massage follows, all but a few back muscles tended to.

He snatches clean clothes, prepared the night before, form the far corner of the bed, and settles on the stool, player silenced. House allows Cujo to follow him into bathroom, dog sprawled in the narrow passage. Tee stuck to skin with sweat is peeled off, drawstring grabbed between index and middle finger of otherwise limited hand, ingenious knot undone with a single pull.

It takes him a while to complete morning hygiene, dressing included, but that's why he gave himself ample head start. The little things like having the maid button his shirts three quarters up make all the difference. Even loafers turn to have good sides, like the lack of laces. With the help of teeth he puts the wrist watch on the wrong hand, its top deliberately removed. The other ring of scars he covers with a folded bandana, ends sewn together. After momentary doubt, he rolls the sleeves to the elbows, minor scars on display.

_What the hell._

He bounces through the apartment like a pinball, hands pushing him from wall to shelf to credenza. In his minds eye he can still picture the apartment, seeing how little of it has changed to accommodate his disabilities.

Moving into the kitchen he uses memory to locate everything, feeling around the assorted spreads, recognizing jars by shape but checking the content's smell before arranging a pile of toast for spreading. Tall glass meets bottleneck side to side and the milk bottle is tilted, fluid poured till the surface reaches his finger, one knuckle down in the glass. The exact pitch is committed to memory for later use. Half the jam sandwiches are gobbled up and washed down with milk, the other packed in paper towels for later consumption.

Cujo is silent as any big dog, but in constant motion around House, impatient for his own meal.

"Traiga juguete." House waves the dog into the living room while he makes way to the closet. Receiving the hard rubber toy, shaped like a football, he loads a fistful of dry treats in.

Palm over watch, he feels the position of both pointers, time just under eight o'clock. Quickly he grabs a backpack by the door and loads everything they'll need in its numerous compartments, moving to the chair just as building doors are opened.

"That you Doctor Wilson?" Asks Clarence from outside.

House grins and opens the door, finished just in time.

"Whoa." The orderly comes off surprised.

House tosses the backpack at the man. "Let's go." Passing the bewildered big oaf he even descends the stairs on his own, in a nerve breaking string off minor falls.

The warmth and high atmosphere pressure are analgesics in themselves, so House opts to wheel on his own rather than have Clarence push. Today he has a point to prove. Giving Cujo a generous length of rope he flow's the dog's easy going walk, each step on the asphalt a small audible beacon.

Trip to the park being an almost daily occurrence, he doesn't have to give directions any more. Short of rain, nothing can keep them from getting a dose of optimism in the form of sunlight and feel-good germs from dried, cattle dung fertilizer.

Clarence is at his right and rear as always, odd trio making their usual morning excursion in amicable silence. From time to time House stops for a breather, giving Cujo a chance to sniff around, piss on utilities and bark at small critters.

They're at the park in under half hour, and with arms tired of pushing, House pulls over at their usual table. Seeing as much as a normal person with eyelids closed, he looks up at the sun, engulfed in soft white like he was under a linen tent in the desert. The sounds and smells of nature enrich their excursion, birds singing hymns over the sweet incense of flowers and mown grass.

House picks up a sonic void at his right. "Is two o'clock clear?" He leans his head back to see Clarence's dark head looming in the overall gray while fishing the backpack on his knees for the overgrown tennis ball.

"For a few hundred feet."

Leash unhooked, toy takes to the air, Cujo on it like bee on honey, racing back in record time. House swaps hands to keep form overstraining once injured shoulders, instead throwing with the whole upper body evenly, all the way from the hips. Clarence makes a few tosses himself just for variety.

Seeing how the day is hot, dry and sunny, House decides to conclude their pastime with a couple of balls thrown in the lake. Having swum enough, Cujo shakes the excess water off at a safe distance and stands in front of House waiting to be groomed. Two tortured souls enjoy it just as much, one for the care given and the other for the therapeutic value of a simple, repetitive task. Under hot August sun and Greg's pedant brushing, the coat is quickly as good as new.

"There you go." House stuffs the horse brush back and produces a hard rubber toy.

While Cujo is busy chewing, the men hunker down to study. Clarence takes on Anatomy 101, his pencil scratching opposite House, who makes clicks on the blind-accessible laptop, grateful for the campus wireless net. He makes random searches throughout AMA's database, message pinging occasionally on the diagnostic forum. The open ended consult method is a great way to test or advance his knowledge. Hours later, a loud rumble of Greg's stomach times their stay in the park over.

Returning to the apartment, House leaves the backpack by the door, switching to his indoor seat. "You like pasta?" He asks Clarence.

"Huh?"

"I've got spaghetti and canned beef. Only have to boil one and heat up the other."

"You sure? You ready?"

"I've been planning, observing and covertly practicing since I got out of the hospital. You're damn right I am."

"Whatever you say, Doc." Clarence is uncertain but willing to give it a try.

"Gimme a minute." House heads for the bedroom, returning some fifteen minutes later dressed in a new set of sweats and tee. Relief of remote control burned in muscle memory, he has no trouble turning the small TV on, smack in the middle of a brain-dead Spanish soap.

House moves to the kitchen, finding two pots, a bag of pasta and a can of beef in the lower compartments. Blast of water filling pot drowns the over dramatic acting, electric heater turned with a click. House follows the inane plot from the dialogue, waiting for water to boil. Soon enough, bubbling comes from the stove and he adds spaghetti along with some oil and salt. At the same time he fills the other pot to warm up the meat. Pumping the lever under his seat, House extends the stool's height to reach for the overhead cabinets, fishing for plates. A punch on the button valve and he is back down, grabbing two forks.

House knows the food is cooked when its aroma stirs his appetite. It takes careful calculation to position pot directly above sieve, drain the spaghettis and return them to the pot, but he manages with only a few strands lost to the kitchen sync, and the same goes for beef. When he finally sets the butcher-block table for lunch, Clarence cannot help but chuckle his approval.

"You sure did practice, Doc."

The men enjoy a quiet meal, not top cuisine but not bad either. When Wilson comes to take over, he is astonished to find them eating and even more so upon learning who cooked.

"I can take care of myself Jimmy." House answers the man's disbelief while dumping dishes in the sync. "Now Git. Both of ya. Elena's gonna be over soon. I don't need ten babysitters." He shoos them out, Cujo joining in with playful barks.

Once alone, House turns an easy classical music, sprawls on the sofa with the afghan tossed over legs, and sets the laptop up. By reflex he checks the forum first, finding the latest message familiar. It's a re-post from one thread starter, a young Miami doctor with a conundrum on his hands, whining at the lack of replies to his baffling case and begging for feedback. With nothing to loose, House returns to the original post, checking the input.

_Thirty year old African American male. High and wildly fluctuating fever. High white cell count. Severe and worsening anemia. Diminishing awareness. Early stages of kidney and liver failure_.

And a slew of diagnoses disproved for various reasons, not least of which are erroneous treatments.

House logs on to the database and, after some digging and deliberation, decides to end his lengthy lurking in the medical cyberspace.

'_Possible recurrence of dormant malaria in heterozygous sickle cell anemic.'_ He writes_. 'Possible parasite resistance to quinine given regular consumption of tonic water.'_

Hitting send, House makes his comeback in the medical community, knowing it will start an avalanche. He shuts the laptop before being buried in a tone of reply mail.


	33. Old Times Sake

**Old Times Sake  
**

"You got it?" House asks eagerly, dog's loud pants making semicircles round his back.

"The Georgy Orgy" Stacy shakes a DVD case in front of his face. "A marathon of irreverent, obscene, morbid and politically incorrect."

A mischief's grin sprawls across his face, hands snatching the bounty as he wheels for the low coffee table. Carefully the disc is pried from its place and slid into the laptop on the cool glass surface, cluttered with dewy bottles. A few multi-key shortcuts gets the show going. With a heave he pushes off, moving from stool to sofa, groaning the ache away.

"Non alcoholic beer?" She is stumped.

"Liver." He explains simply. "No spices, saturated fats or most drugs either."

"That sucks."

Tandem of hisses and pops tells of bottles opened. She touches the outside of his more or less functioning left hand with one thick, cold, bottle bottom.

Taking the drink he holds it between them. "To freedom."

Her own collides with a clink. "To freedom."

A swig sends the smooth non-liquor down his throat, coolness enough to make it tingle. Recorded applause ushers in the performer as House settles deeper into the worn leather, its dents and bumps familiar to his back.

"Listen." He tips the bottleneck slightly at the screen.

"_Now I'm a clown folks."_ Begins a cranky geriatric. _"But in the baloney department, a clown can't hold a candle to a clergyman. These folks actually got grown men convinced there is a guy up there, who watches everything you do…"_

House pauses in mid swig, memories of perpetual surveillance creeping up on him.

"…_every minute of every day…"_

He gulps with effort.

"…_and he's got a special list, of things he __**does not want you to do**__…"_

Words needled into his back suddenly itch, and he shuffles over the afghan pointlessly.

"…_and if you do __**any**__ of these things he's got a special place…"_

Flashes of hard gray and cold damp blink like epileptic triggers.

"…_full of torture and anguish…" _

His frame shrinks with every word.

"…_where he will send you to live and __**suffer and scream and cry**__…"_

He can feel vitals skyrocketing, hyperventilation and tachy, his grip on the bottle tightening against clammy sweat.

"…_**for ever and ever**__-"_ Old man runs out of breath, House frozen at the brink of a panic attack.

"Greg?" Her hand makes contact with his shoulder, drawing him out of it.

"_But he _loves_ you."_ Lands the punch-line.

A snort escapes over the raving ovations, small, hysterical even, not so much for the joke itself but the fact it _is_ only a joke.

"_And he __**always needs money!**__"_

It builds to a chuckle, Stacy joining weakly only when she sees he's ok.

"_All wise and all knowing yet just cant handle money."_

This time their giggles are genuine.

"_You know, the more I look around the more I see something is Fucked. Up. Death, torture, crime, corruption and the ice capades?"_

They burst into great big guawfs of laughter, tears and all, one fueling the other till they are huffing and panting though intermittent chuckles and giggles.

"_And by the way when I say he I really mean it. No woman ever could or would fuck things up this bad." _

"Amen." She salutes.

He raises the bottle. "A-woman."

The swig is good, like the mood, like the company and entertainment. Hours fly by without notice in hilarious amusement.

When the credits roll she places her hand upwards between their touching thighs, a quiet invitation. His plastered right comes above it, sensing fingers move from under his to slip between them, entwined. A smile sneaks up on him as he 'looks' at her.

"Cuddy told me you've made a comeback in the medical community." She starts small talk.

House grins. "Gossip travels at warp speeds."

"Have you considered her offer?"

He shakes his head.

"Why not?"

"I only throw ideas on the forum. Can't kill anybody if I'm wrong."

"No responsibility." She understands. "No bragging rights either."

A huffed smile. "Don't need any more bragging. This is just a way to pass time."

"A distraction."

He sucks a hard breath. Truth hurts even when its unintentional. But a distraction from what. Pain? Flashbacks?

"How bout you keep replying on the forum, but do it from a hospital office?"

"And get paid for nothing?"

"We could hire you as a mentor… It's a teaching hospital. And if you don't want pity money it could be volunteer work."

He sighs.

"How bout clinic duty?"

"And have Clarence be my assistance orderly?"

"He allready is. And how much could you be wrong - it's either STDs, cold or some kind of flu. You always said an idiot could do it." Stacy prods his ribs for a reply, doesn't get any.

"You don't get out much do you?" She nails the real issue.

"Park." He counters.

"That's it?"

"Here I'm on top of things. Outside… to much noise, can't follow everything. It's… disorienting."

"Met anyone new at the park?"

"Don't like strangers." He mumbles. "Dangerous. Even if they act friendly."

"We could arrange things so you meet a minimum of people. God knows you've successfully avoided everyone before. Nobody needs to visit but old colleagues. Lisa, James, the weird janitor…"

He chuckles.

"Just think about it, Greg."

"I will, but… don't rush it, okay?"

"All right." She squeezes his forearm. "Take your time."

His left hand covers hers, the one clasping his arm.

"What about the interview?"

"Monday. I want to announce my return before the media can twist it."

"I thought the cast comes off on Monday?"

"Moved it up a day."

Stacy leans against his side. "I had no idea how much I missed this."

"Me neither." He whispers, reveling in the undemanding presence of another person. It does not cease to amaze him how the most basic of senses, and one erroneously considered least useful, has such a strong effect.

The long, silent revive is shattered by Cujo's loud snoring, making House snort and Stacy smile against his shoulder. Suddenly the phone rings, two of them disentangling form each other slowly, cautious of his range of motion. Before House can reach it and answer, the machine does it for him.

"House, pick up." Cuddy speaks urgently, her underlining excitement and worry palpable, viscous.

He punches the speakerphone. "What is it?"

"I just got a call from the donor network. They've got a match."

* * *

George Carlin – Religion, 'Ye'r All Diseased'


	34. Let There Be Light

**Let There Be Light**

He sits ill at ease in utter darkness, wondering how anyone can doubt the usefulness of a single percent of vision, even the mere ability to tell apart shades of gray. The pitch black around him is too similar to the windowless, lightless solitary for comfort, only friendly hands on his back and arm keeping him grounded in reality.

"Ready?" A young soprano inquires.

He nods, feeling pressure lessen from his temples as rolls of gauze are unwound. Carefully the thick cotton pads are removed form his lids, black turning to brick red of thin flesh in indirect light. His mouth drops open, brows high with elation.

"Open up slowly." Directs the ophthalmologists.

Eyes open a fraction only to be assaulted by a blinding glare that forces him to close them, arm reflexively raised to shield himself from overwhelming light. He gasps silent laughter regardless.

"Shut the blinds."

A swath of shadow moves over a field of vision that is deep, rich burgundy, making him chuckle. Cuddy's clasp vanishes from his arms in response to the command as stilettos click hurriedly away. Squinting and blinking repeatedly, he barely makes out the shrinking blotch of shadow, her silhouette as seen form behind. The window turns from uncomfortable white to dark gray.

"Better?"

Air burns against fresh stitches, giving the exam room an appearance of one huge, chalk stained blackboard through film of tears, spots of more vibrant color barely hinted at. From pain and joy two streaks tumble down his cheek, soaked up by the half beard, half stubble.

Wilson's hand moves to his near shoulder, another one joining it on the far side, and House turns to him, a blur of brown scattered about a peachy oval with no clear edge. He lurches forth, nearly throwing the man off balance, long arms wrapped around pressed shirt, ruining it appearance with his crumpling grip. Cuddy's angular face drifts into view, surrounded by a black halo. He sniggers quietly through the turmoil of emotion, too afraid to blink away the stinging sensation for fear of finding it all an illusion.

"His eyes are red. Lay him down." Says a pillar of pastel aquarelle at his side.

Wilson pries himself an inch from the older guy, pushing back to level him with the mat. House looks to the young blonde approaching, smile dying on his lips at the sight of something small and terrifying in her hand. The thing is no more than blob of off white in Greg's eyes, but he knows, and forgets to breathe.

"No." Desperate utterance is barely above a whisper. He shuts his eyes tight to protect them and turns away, everything crashing back: the fear, darkness, the smell of burnt meat over some poor soul's screaming…

"House? House, what is it?" Wilson's voice is at face level with him, calling back to the safety of present time.

But male hands on his cheek and forehead are stronger, more real, keeping him under. "Please don't-" Whisper vanishes in a clogged throat.

"Oh, God..." Cuddy utters with defeated understanding. "That's how they did it." She has presence of mind enough to relive Wilson, her fingers raking gently through Greg's hair, stroking over cheek. A forehead meets his. "Relax, House, you're safe."

He grabs her arm in a tight grip, an urgent plea for a promise.

"Look at me." She whispers, pulling away.

Tentatively he does, facing huge orbs of sky blue on a pale background, dark rimmed with darker cores.

"No one's gonna harm you. Not ever."

His glance floats worriedly to the tiny object, terror in his look.

"What is that?" Cuddy inquires.

"Saline." Answers the blonde. "With topical antibiotic and anesthetic."

Breath held, he shakes his head in disbelief.

"He'll have to take it three times a day minimum." She continues.

Wilson holds a hand out. "Give it to me." He lets his head hang back and holds the eyedropper above the eye nearest House, wide open.

"Jimmy don't-" House bolts upright. "NO!"

Wilson squeezes.

Nothing happens.

Younger guy wipes the excess fluid leaking out.

House sits silent, shocked. A pant is released, than another.

"Want me to do it?" Wilson holds the eyedropper between them.

House gulps, nods, allows himself guided back on the soft, plastic encased foam, body protesting his recent sudden move. Watching the eyedropper hover above him brings him an inch short of a heart attack.

"Inhale…Exhale."

Drop falls, taking away the sting. Watching it used on his other eye is still frightening, but significantly less so. House blinks a few times to spread the substance in an even film, world coming half way to focus. Faces come to exhibit familiar form through shades of shadow and highlights. Darker spots mark smile dimples and he smiles back.

Ophthalmologist walks over. "See, no big deal."

He looks away, abashed.

"Help him up."

Cuddy and Wilson oblige.

"This is gonna be uncomfortable." She comes inches from him and turns the small light on, spying through his pupils.

House bares through the glare, eyes watering up.

"You have retinas to die for."

He chuckles.

The doctor moves away, light out. "Do you see the tip?" She holds a pen a foot from his face.

He shakes his head.

"Tell me when it starts getting sharper." The pen moves closer, almost touching his nose, than back to the edge of the room.

Another shake.

"That's okay." She reassures while walking back. "The ciliary muscles have lost tone from disuse. Iris also but to a lesser extent. For now wear shades or dim the lights. Focus will come back with exercise. Try to follow moving things. Ball games are good. But not over TV."

"Lax." He nods.

She smiles. "Go Tigercats."

Eyes wandering about the room, he takes a moment to just enjoy the newly restored sense, taking in the various mixes of transparency and reflection that distinguish one material form another, the hues of color and shades that outline shapes.

"I'll schedule another checkup in a week to see how the healing is progressing. Stitches are organic and will degrade in time."

He nods absently.

"Come on." Wilson pats House on the arm with his shades. "There are nicer things to watch."

Saying goodbye, the trio heads out, House looking around avidly, soaking up everything, recognizing old staff and spotting newbies. Passing colleagues shower him with smiles and thumbs up. A few distant ones wave hello so he waves back uncertainly.

At some point House catches his reflection in the glass. "Stop." He grabs the chair's wheels.

The man looking back at him is some old stranger, hair thin and white like scattered feathers. Sagging of skin he felt every time he passed a hand over face becomes real, as if it's been purely academic knowledge up till now. His skinny frame has never shocked him as much, deformities never made him so depressed.

"Keep going." He whispers, and Wilson pushes forth.

Fortunately, House has little time to dwell on the appearance of damage, as they are feet from the door and closing. When next he looks up, he is in the garden, awestruck by impressionistic styled spots of bright green and yellow in counter light, colors of life and joy, trembling in the breeze like liquid stained glass of some majestic cathedral, framed and carried by living pillars of dark wood.

Enlightenment is a gross understatement of what he feels in that split second eternity.


	35. Mind Over Matter

Mind Over Matter

House is laid back in the armchair, dressed for visitors but not being the model host, for he stares at the slow flow of cream colored curtains that dull the light from outside, his mind in the virtual world of potential beginnings.

Across the coffee table, across the room entire, two strangers wait at the sofa patiently, wordlessly. Cujo is at his feet, facing the guests, beautifully glistening coat flowing in colors of molten caramel and menthol candies. The animal can sense his nerves at the presence of strangers, and so keeps them in its sights at all times, a quiet warning. Big brown eyes skip between them like a switch, left, right, left...

By the general dimming House gauges the afternoon has passed, his little brown world of wood, leather and cloth now outlined in sunset's amber tint. It is a quiet, absentminded nirvana he revels in, sheltered by the brick and mortar of earth, warmed by the setting sun and soothed by a slight draft. The naturalness of it all is a stark contrast to the hard grays of prison, of its stuffy, cold damp. He hesitates to venture in the discussion, for it will inevitably lead in the direction of bitter-sour memories.

More than elements, it is the people that make him most at ease, and on the edges of his field of vision he can just make them out: Wilson leaned on the kitchen doorjamb, Cuddy seated at the small desk, Stacy in the nook of lobby, and last but not least, Clarence in the corner once occupied by the piano that now holds Cujo's daytime bed - an odd link between the two seven feet large, living, breathing, warnings.

House breathes out a lengthy inward sigh. Since the introductions nearly an hour before, he hasn't spoken anything of importance, practically nothing if one discounts the forced pleasantries. He can feel eyes on him, and not just from the reporters, impatiently curious of what he has to say.

"No photos." He finally speaks, and even then not to the blond photographer lady but the room in general. "No audio recordings. No questions on torture methods." Brightest blues turn to the reporters, irises fading to white through the narrow ring of old, ravaged corneas. "If I volunteer any info, don't take it as permission to dig deeper. Ask whatever you want. I don't promise answering."

"Whatever you say." The balding man holds his hands up, distancing himself from any implications to the opposite.

For a moment he is amused by their Laurel and Hardy appearance: blond woman with long, scrawny features, right down to the nose, paired with a plump, dark haired man. He watches the man lean a bit closer, elbows on knees, arms rubbed together in thought.

"Why?"

"Why what?" House frowns. "Why did he pick me, or why did I agree?"

The man, Rock or something like it, smiles innocently. "In that order preferably."

"You wouldn't be a world class reporter if you didn't already know the first… " House sighs, "Do you have a family?" He returns with a question.

And everyone in the room understands.

House glances between his own, de-facto adopted family, but only briefly. "The truth is… I had no idea he'd go that far."

"There has been talk of awarding you. Medals, honorary titles… Medical associations, various levels of government… What are your thoughts on that?"

His shrug is indifferent, lethargic. "I haven't done it for rewards. Wasn't even supposed to mention it." He looks at his right hand studiously, freed from its cast prison only hours ago. Form corrected, it's a small sliver of hope, yet trying to stretch it out makes him wince nigh imperceptibly. The limb settles back in his lap. "I've done enough as a doctor. Rather be rewarded for something I did than something I suffered through."

Quiet, awed admiration comes in the form of understanding nods from the reporters and an occasional proud smile of caretakers.

"What are your plans? Rumor has it you've returned to practicing medicine? Is that true?"

"I've offered my ideas on a case. I will keep doing it. Nothing else is in plan."

"Forgive me for saying this but consults weren't in your plan either and yet…"

"If anything changes you'll be the first to know." House dismisses him.

"All right - Thompson's murder." Falls the bombshell. "Four months and no leads. Any ideas on who it might have been? Do you want the perpetrator caught?"

House blinks at the question. For all its expectedness, and all the time he thought of it, he is still short of a definitive answer. And than he realizes. "I wasn't freed because he was killed. If it was a mob fight, don't care. If it was someone like me, my respect and best wishes to the perpetrator."

Rocky makes a perplexed face, but only mildly. "Would you have-"

"Yes." House's word is dead certain, impersonal. The calm detachment in which it is uttered fills the room with icy silence. "I'd never torture him." The latter comes as a rising thermal wind, releasing the audience of the unnerving spell.

The journalist clears his throat, preparing to push his luck. "If I may ask… How did you get out of it sane?"

"I had to." He shrugs as if it's obvious. "The body is more resilient than most people think. World war one trench soldiers, when under heavy shelling, would just fall asleep. Right in the middle of all that noise and detonations. The mind knew it could not ensure physical survival, but it could ensure psychological."

"That's what happened to you? You went catatonic?"

His smile is melancholy all over. "They forbade it. That and dying. It was a thing of telling their wishes. When the guards wanted me loud I'd put on an act of agony at first plausible level of pain. There was no point in enduring more than necessary. When they wanted to vent on me but have me stay quiet I'd withdraw into myself."

"What do you mean?"

"It's an altered mental state. Sleeping but not. Like dozing off on the passenger seat with the radio on, you can hear music but you don't listen, it has no effect, leaves no trace."

Heads bob in silent understanding.

"I'm guessing it was different with the lawyer." Rocky ventures further not without sympathy.

"He couldn't be fooled." House admits with a nod. "There were moments the pain was so intense my pulse and blood pressure were short of a heart attack or brain aneurysm. If I didn't normalize them, I'd die, and than Thompson would make good on his end of the deal."

"How did you manage that?"

"National Geographic."

The audience stares bewildered.

"There was a show on those face piercing freaks. Figured if they could do it… Once I was able to dull agony to discomfort they couldn't hurt me with pain. Nothing they threatened with had effect. So I was freed from fear also." 

_'Except the conditioning techniques.'_ His subconscious reminds of the shocks, drug cocktails and recordings run over and over for days.

Clothes wide over a thin frame hide a long, bone-chilling shiver.

Reading the hint of fear from his subtle expression, Rocky offers a return to lighter subjects. "Care to share your technique? I'm sure a lot of pain sufferers would like to try it out."

"Pain is worse when resisted. You have to go in headlong and curious about it, like a lab rat with intriguing phenomena. You have to want to study it, in detail."

Confused faces look back at him from all around.

"The Inuit have a hundred words for snow." His words make little sense to the audience. "Doctors have a hundred terms for pain."

In a split second his flaw of deconstructing human experience away to mere hollow biochemistry becomes a glaringly obvious stoic strength. The man that was only moments ago a victim abused into fearful reservation transforms before their eyes to a serenely detached survivor.

"What about psychological torture?"

"All torture is psychological." He states deadpan, as if he never got an inside perspective. "Some more directly than others."

"That's where you draw the line." Rocky proves his astute reputation.

House nods.

"Is there anything they could have done that would break you?" The man takes his chance none the less.

House turns to the hall for a long while, lost in memory. "Like a twig." He lets out on a breath.

One cough to shake off the swell of emotion and he's back to studying the floor between them, a blur of complex burgundy and white geometric patters on the Oriental rug.

"They must have known it, though, because they didn't go along with it. They never pushed too far, the trick was in doing it, not in getting it done. It would have been mercy, letting me snap." He can feel eyes boring holes in him, their minds on edge for explanation. Not knowing which would be worse: having to live with friends knowing or silently wondering, he decides to go for ambiguous. "All they had to do is give me the cane."

He glances from face to friendly face but can't make himself establish eye contact from shame. All reason in the world could not have spared him the guilt, and the knowledge makes him stare dully at the ground. "I'd be a drooling vegetable and you'd all be dead."

Cujo takes the moment to stand, sliding the muzzle in his lap. House offers the animal a scratch behind the ear, grateful for the distraction.

A moment later, without anyone needing to voice it, all present know the talk is over. In hushed voices Stacy, Cuddy and Wilson usher the reporters out, thanking them for their cooperation, while Clarence just comes to stand reassuringly behind the old man, big palm a comfort on his shoulder.


	36. Big Apple

_Sorry for the dry spell, people. Was preoccupied with life, universe and everything._

_**I'm a master of science! I'm a bloody master of computer science! Graduated to-day!  
I'm da boss of Genetic Algorithms AI!**_

_Sorry, guys and gals, just had to do that. :o) Enjoy…_

* * *

**Big Apple**

In the cabin's low pressure, he leans his forehead on the round frame of the window and breathes deep to dull the edge of pain. Gathering slow, scattered thoughts, he forces himself to remember that he is on a small plane and a short trip, making this a low altitude flight. What little added ache it causes is abated by good weather. Pulling away and focusing on the pain from a safe mental distance he finds it to be of a stiff kind, and the negative aspect of it looses intensity, going from disorienting to distracting and, at last, merely discomforting.

Only than does he open his eyes, and the lush, green shore of New England drifts miles below him. Sight recovering gradually, he can only see clearly at great distances, which is fortunate in this case, as it enables him to appreciate the view. Training the eye muscles, he shifts focus from the hair thin infrastructure below to the nearby wing tip. Without warning, blue meets blue on the blurry window-pane reflection, and he squints to form a cammera obscura from eyelids in order to better see his face.

It surprises House how good he actually looks, now that the shock of twenty years added biological age has lost its edge. There are a few shallow lines on his face that deepen to obvious at particular expressions, some parallel to the natural lines and looking like intense wrinkles, others perpendicular and out of place. Long nose zigzags with a few cartilage malformations, but it can all be safely dismissed as reminders of brawls and stumbles of a reckless, adventurous youth. A sardonic ghost of a grin flashes on this face as he realizes that he was once reckless and adventurous, and that the cuts and fractures were earned in stumbles and fistfights, technically. A three day stubble does the job of hiding the worst dents and scars that cover the lower jaw.

Strange, he thinks, how Thompson's insistence on keeping him alive, has now the benefit of keeping his damage well hidden from passers by. By forbidding he be beaten on the head and in the gut, for fear of lethal concussions or hard to notice internal bleeding, Thompson has limited the abuse to torso and limbs, which are easy to hide under clothes and inside shoes. Even the deformed legs will be out of sight till they are fixed, since the lingering low weight necessitates blanket cover. Only hands are simultaneously messed up and exposed, but those sticking around long enough to notice are mostly medical professionals who know how to deal with the matter. To a passing stranger he is indistinguishable from any other frail geriatric, and so no cause for dumb staring. At least he hopes so.

Comforted by such thoughts, he fails to notice they are on approach of New York, drawn to it only by the unexpected easing of ache as they begin the slow descent. With a little help from Wilson, House disembarks form the VIP plane in privacy, knitted beret and photoreactive multi-focal glasses helping his cover. Once in the terminal, an unusually tall oriental man in dark jeans and short-sleeved shirt pulls out a badge and chats to the local security, facilitating the doctors' hasty processing.

"Doctors." He nods politely.

Aside the half bow, House notices the triangular face and straight brows that distinguish the man as Japanese. "Konnichi wa, mawari-san." Comes the fitting greeting and attempt to show off to the younger man.

The fed smiles lively. "Hajimemashite. Hashimoto desu." In surprisingly fluent Japanese he returns with a question on Greg's wellbeing and a personal introduction.

"Yoroshiku onegai shimasu." House states he is glad to meet him, unable to not notice the literal meaning of the words - 'please be kind to me.'

Apparently Hashimoto sees it too, as he next speaks in a reassuring tone. "Kochira koso, o-san."

The doubly respectful title leaves House a little taken, a little humbled.

"Shall we?" Wilson ends the silence before it can turn awkward.

"This way." The fed leads them out to the vast parking lot, the bigger of Greg's bags on his shoulder as Wilson pushes the wheelchair.

Nearing a big, black van with darkened windows and polished chrome caps, House grips the steel rings of the chair desperately, slowing their progress.

_Oh, shit, he's back. They're gonna take me to-._

His mind goes frantic, breath shallow and quick as it takes all of his willpower not to plummet into the numbness of defensive withdrawal.

_Miles betrayed me, can't trust strangers._

Agent Hashimoto turns around. "Sir?"

"What's wrong, House?" Wilson speaks softly in Greg's ear, one hand on his arm.

House stares frozen at the vehicle, trying hard to stifle flinches that come with the unwanted memory of being bound in the back of one such truck, its trajectory an insane jumble off sudden twists.

_Please don't take me back. I'll lay low. I'll stay out of medicine. Just please don't let them take me._

"Would it be all right if we take a cab?" Wilson asks.

It only takes a split second for the man to put two and two together. "Damn... Should have though about the car." He sounds apologetic. "We could, but I don't know if you'll be comfortable squashed in the back with the two of us" The man talks to House, drawing attention from the car and breaking the spell. "Of course…" He comes over, growing bigger in House's field of view, the constant background fear intensifying.

Hashimoto crouches low besides his charge, which soothes House immensely. "You could get a coffee in the airport lounge while I get my private car. I'm sure there's a corner lounge for you to keep an eye out from while having your back safe. If there isn't I could always clear one for you." The suggestion earns him House's shy smile. "That'll be more comfortable. But if you're in a hurry you can sit in the front of the van, direct me where to drive. I've never been at that hospital of yours."

"Clinic." House says.

"See, I don't even know what it is. Bet I'd get lost without you."

House looks up at the van, riding shotgun to the big American samurai doesn't sound bad. A buraku and a samurai, now that's an interesting team. Against fear, he nods.

"Let's get your seated." Hashimoto stands up, walking side by side with the old doctor.

Spying from below, House sees the agent subtly gesture ay-okay to Wilson.

House is more than happy to use the GPS navigator, the sense of control guarding against flashbacks like a sturdy barricade. He pretends to be a rally wing man, the director of their race. But as straight roads on the outskirts turns to meandering, crowded burrows, the flare of colors leaves him ever more overwhelmed, confused and anxious.

Spotting his growing discomfort, Hashimoto nods at the device. "There's a sound button in the lower corner."

House presses it, and a pleasing female voice takes over, allowing him to close his eyes, stopping the disorientation and nausea. He is reminded of beasts, caught in the wild to be relocated in cages, the way their heads are covered so as not to stress them needlessly. It is soothing to know in advance every turn, and not to be surprised by unexpected changes in direction.

When House opens his eyes on sensing their deceleration, he does so to a piece of Princeton in the heart of the Bronx anthill. The five stories tall, brick and mortar facade they are nearing is the tallest thing in sight, surrounded by densely packed townhouses of the affluent that lined the streets.

The car tunnels into the underground face of the building, pulling over in the patient section. House allows Wilson to help him form car to wheelchair, their moves so well coordinated from countless repetitions that words are not necessary. Hashimoto makes himself useful by playing the role of mule without being asked to. Wilson's phone is already lodged between shoulder and chin, younger doctor ringing up their host.

Soon enough the cargo elevator arrives, delivering a short, balding man with a big nose. House recognizes him from AMA's biography database, noting less hair than form the aged picture.

"Doctor House" Chris Taub holds out a hand.

After an uncertain beat, House swallows his insecurities about the second male stranger today and slips his right cautiously in its hold. He does not regret it, as the man, obviously in the loop, takes care not to squeeze too much.

"Gentlemen." Taub nods at the other two, than steps back, arm swung back in invitation.

The ride up is quiet, pod feeling crowded with their presence despite its size. House notes just how much his always wide personal space has grown since release.

By accident he catches Taub staring at his hands with thoughtful concentration, a look House recognizes easily for he often wore it before, when facing a challenging case with confidence. He knows it is not confidence born of knowing what to do, but knowing he has the skill to figure it out. Suddenly the short man grows ten feet tall respect wise, a calm presence not at all dangerous. The look alone nurtures Houses frail yet tenacious hope of playing once more.

As the door opens to an airy, homey clinic reception, in amber shades of big windows and white stucco walls framing lacquered wood floors and furniture, House feels confidence spill over into him, eager for the next tiny step in his recovery.


	37. Religious Calling

**Religious Calling**

House lies restless in an unfamiliar bed, trying to breathe away the cramps of a protesting empty stomach. The day long fast in advance of hand surgery leaves him running on empty, and he would be sleeping the day away if not for incessant disruption of hunger pangs.

A small smile crosses his face as he remembers that here in the outside world there are sensations, pleasant distractions to draw his mind away from pain. He focuses on the warm rays of an indian summer afternoon, trickling through green canopies outside. On fragrance of old-fashioned linen soap and the feel of a soft but supportive mattress. And that's just his skin and nose talking.

There isn't much sound in the insulated room, just the hum of ventilation and rustle of paper as Hashimoto reads a magazine in the corner. Comfort wise, the man's a poor substitute for Wilson, but House doesn't complain, as he once endured far worse roommates. And how long can two doctors talk over a procedure booked months ago, anyway?

House looks out over a private room, with furniture usually found in student dorms, and figures the design was intentionally un-hospital-like for the comfort of its occupants. He is glad the clinic also uses wide tees and boxers instead of revealing gowns, a compromise between nurse accessibility and patient privacy made possible only by the fact no one in here is actually sick.

Thinking of which, he remembers not checking his AMA account in a while, what with all the fuss of preparations for trip and operation. "Samurai Jack." He calls the temporary private bodyguard.

Magazine plops on the counter behind him, chair squealing as Hashimoto stands. "Sir?"

"Laptop. ... Please."

"Sure." Zipper and footsteps tell of the device being delivered.

He shuffles backwards on the bed till his spine connects with the guard rail, and taps the mattress in front of him. Understanding, Hashimoto places the laptop at the spot in House's reach and sight. House moves his arm over the keypad from the elbow, the least damaged joint, turning the thing on, logging in and going on line in slow but purposeful clicks, made by allowing the long middle finger to press on desired keys with sufficient weight.

Soon he's on the medical forum, searching the posts for old threads and being rewarded by a triple treat. An old, relapsing-remitting case with a quadriplegic involved. He clicks the first post, grinning with glee in anticipation of a puzzle.

First he reads through the pages of ER reports detailing one man's escapades that start off as accidents but in time the whole thing starts to suspiciously resemble suicide attempts.  
September 06 - two minute lack of oxygen due to drowning - driving his wheelchair in a pool.  
March 07 - extensive first degree burns - starting a fire by pushing the gas vent all the way.  
November 07 - severe hypothermia - opening the door to a blizzard…

His heart goes out for the middle aged white man, so similar in appearance and circumstance that empathy prompts a deeper look into the history, in search of any way to correct or build upon previous treatment for the original condition - brain tumor.

Hours later, after Wilson has come and gone several times, the sun had set and House is left straining to read the small print from a glaring screen. He's also got nothing useful to advise, beside a tendon surgery to ease the pain of atrophied muscles, not unlike the one he will soon go through. Figuring a man ten years confined could wait another day for his moment of brilliance, House decides to take one last look of the brain scans before logging off.

And than he sees it, a spot on the image, and takes his head off the pillows with a focused squint. He easily recognizes it as a benign new growth. The recognition is a snowflake that triggers an avalanche of genius, a singular point to which other facts of the case gravitate with the order of a developing hypothesis. It's a mnemonic black hole lining puzzle pieces together ever faster the bigger it grows. Medicine becomes a thing with a life of its own and he merely a vessel for its timeless, abstract essence, flowing ethereal form mind to mind in a string of generations all the way back to prehistoric surgeons and earlier.

In a frenzy of accelerating activity, the data stream hits the limits of his brain's processing power, world falling away from his awareness. Overdrive severs chains that hold him trapped in a broken body, allowing him to merge wholehearted with the medicine, to walk as equal among Galen, Sushruta and countless other immortal giants of discovery, because he too, in a moment outside time, has glimpsed eternity.

The intellectual elation, climaxing with a eureka, leaves him basking in the warm afterglow of pride for a challenge overcome and a person helped. With a beatific smile he lets his head drop into the soft heap of pillows, feeling a well deserved rest creep up on him. Hand swung over keys like a crane, he writes 'Cyst pressing on Hypothalamus. Dampened neural activity. Nonexistent thermal regulation. Negligible adrenal function. Addison's. Surgery and steroids.' Finger hovers above enter, decides against it. 'Tendons.' He adds as afterthought, than hits send and keeps on grinning.

In his mind's eye he can imagine a scene, close in space and time, and in it a man not unlike himself, waking to find out that the binds of his own corporeal prison are disintegrating to wind-swept dust.

Slowly, he closes the laptop, lids slipping shut as well. The last thought on his mind, snatched away from advancing sleep, is an unspoken blessing to someone at once complete stranger and brother in arms.

_You're welcome. _


	38. Waking Dream Walker

**Waking Dream Walker**

He shivers sweaty, curled up in the corner of a two by four cell with his hands tucked under armpits, mind swinging between jail style rehab and his father's ice cures. Door creeks open and sudden light blinds unaccustomed eyes. Nauseated and temporarily without sight he stands up, leaning on the wall while clutching a spastic stomach.

"We've got the good stuff, Greggers!" Bootleg shouts mock celebratory, other guards bursting to drunken laughter.

Baton strike on the thigh sends him stumbling to his knees, shoulder in wall saving him form a face down landing. Someone yanks him by the hair to turn his face up. Nose pinched shut he holds his breath as long as possible.

"What's the matter?" Fingers are shoved in his cheeks in an attempt to pry open his lips. "I thought you liked to get high?"

Hard pressed to get air, he opens his mouth, gasping through teeth tightly clenched. Tasteless Vodka it is poured down his gullet in explosive, intermittent sloshes, forcing him to find a rhythm of breathing through gulps or drown in searing alcohol. Aimlessly scattered, half the bottle empties in him, the rest flowing over face and shoulders, pouring down chest and back to soak the prison rags in coat more chilling than water.

Shuddering, he feels wrists uncuffed from each other only to be spread wide above his head, forcing him to stand up again. A wick snaps to the side of him like a low end lightning, air singing around it threateningly. A drug kicks in, some quick acting psychotic mixed in with the booze, and he find the room spinning, blurred and distorted, senses mixing a dizzying display of sights and sounds as chemical induced fear overpowers his detached composure. Stressed, every lash of nimble wood feels that much more painful, making him growl audibly through sealed lips and flaring nostrils. Each sting is a blinding flash of blood red accompanied by jarring, screeching noise and followed by a fog of crimson hissing. Somewhere in the distance an angry voice protests his screams, threatening to beat the crap out of him. Try as he might, the wails are beyond his control, just like everything else, his mind included.

Uncounted strikes after, the chains are released, and his shaky, cramping limbs buckle beneath the added weight, causing him to fall nose first on hard ground. Steel boot cap kicks him over, and a sound of spark bursts threatens, sizzling away on damp concrete. Sniffling and swallowing the warm, metallic fluid, he endeavors to retain as much fluid and nutrients. A wet scrubbing sponge makes contact with one temple, his face crumpling in a voiceless plea.

He doesn't feel the other sponge. Pain like a pick axe through skull sends his limbs flaying out of control, more bones and teeth broken in the five second agony than all the beatings before. Cramps worse than worst leg pain consume every muscle in his body as air becomes a tantalizing dream, ever-present but impossible to inhale.

As the lighting storm passes, leaving him to quiver and pant, he feels his mind slip as Jimmy's voice chants "It's okay House, it's all over, you're safe now." in a repetitive whisper. Rough concrete and damp, shredded clothes transform to soft, warm bedding but still the angry man stomps over, demanding he shut the fuck up, dream and reality mixing in a terrifyingly confusing state.

_I'm loosing it._ He thinks, tears of pain and loss streaking down his face through loud, high pitched whines. _They won't leave me nothing._

Once mad, the stranger's voice now utters a confused "Holly shit… What the fuck's wrong with 'im?"

"Nothing." Wilson bites back in a stern, adamant tone.

He senses arms embracing him, pulling him up to sit and lean on a dress shirt smelling faintly of oak, a friendly face pressed to his forehead and crown. Hands stroke his arms and shoulders as he clutches a silk tie like a life line, shoulders held tight and gently kneaded.

"You two are sick." It spews.

Noise of Hashimoto's sudden burst of activity climaxes in the unwanted visitor's startled "Huh? – Ungh… Shit." He hisses. "What's wrong with you people!"

Body slams to a nearby wall. "Fuck man you gonna break my arm!"

"Listen buddy, you're gonna back off right now or I'll give you a taste of what he's been through."

"What!? I haven't done any-"

"The only way you can come within a hundred feet of him is to clean his bed pan, or else. And you'll keep your voice down, you got it?"

"You're crazy!"

"Do. You. Got it?"

"Yeah, man all right, all right, Jesus…"

Hashimoto backs off. "Get out."

"You're all gonna get sued." He mutters on the way out.

"Thanks." Wilson nods to Hashimoto, House still in his arms but calming.

Chair grates on the other end of the room as the agent takes a seat. "Was that… _One flew over the cuckoo's nest_?"

House feels Wilson gulp. "I think it was."

"Man…"

"I'm afraid to go to sleep." House speaks very softly. Very child like.

"I know." Wilson gives a little rub on his back.

"They're waiting for me."

No one replies.

"Wish Cujo was here."

Wilson sighs. "Me too, buddy, me too."

"Too much new for one day. Shouldn't have tried too much all at once."

"No. Guess we shouldn't."

"Should have gone slow."

"Next time we'll do the fast at home and drive over for outpatient surgery. Okay?"

House nods. For a while he seams to relax into another dream, than jerks fully alert, lower lip quivering. "I don't wanna go back any more."

Wilson, at a loss for words, rubs his cheek against the older man's temple.

"Have you tried lucid dreaming?" Hashimoto offers.

"He's not big on new age stuff." Wilson replies.

"That's funny. The technique I learned didn't seam new age at all."

House pulls away slowly, settling back, a mix of desperation and curiosity in his eyes.

"Two years ago my team had a run in with some nasty dealers. Let's just say things didn't go according to plan. I've had serious nightmares for a while, almost got diagnosed with shell shock and given a desk job. Lena, my partner, she borrowed me a paper back on the subject. Worked like a charm."

"You think…?" He doesn't dare hope.

Hashimoto shrugs. "You've got nothing to loose. I'll tell her to bring it over tomorrow."

"Thanks."

"It might take a while, you know."

House gives his hand a wane smile, noticing bruises from recent trashing into stuff. "Everything does."


	39. The little Things

**The Little Things**

As the fog of anesthetics dissipates, senses find House prone in a nest off blankets, odd limb stiff in varied types of immobilization equipment: splintered right hand, tight bandages on the right leg and a cast stretching from left mid-thigh to mid calf. He senses four scratching holes arranged in a square around the repaired knee and cracks a tiny, faint smile at the unexpected thoughtfulness.

"Morning, House." Wilson leans over on the rail. "How are you?"

"Good enough." He whispers the usual euphemism for 'Just short of screaming my lungs out, but since it won't ever be better there's no point in complaining.' "Hungry."

Wilson taps his free hand. "Strawberry shake?"

House feels a long forgotten craving. His mouth waters at the thought, remembering the smell of fried grease at Omma's place. The only times he was free of repercussions from failing to meet impossible demands. Like now. "Oillenbolen."

"Sorry?"

"Grease-balls. Dutch doughnuts." He explains. "Haven't had those since I was ten."

A button clicks somewhere to his side. "This is room one twelve, could you pass a request to the kitchen, please?"

"What would you like?" A sweet sounding nurse replies.

"Two strawberry milkshakes, fresh fruit and high-fat milk. And a dozen Dutch doughnuts, high on raisins and straight out of the fry."

"I'll let them know."

"Thanks." Wilson finishes the call. "Would you mind if Bennett and Kutner see you while we wait?"

The name Kutner throws house off for a moment but he quickly remembers the clinic's second doctor, the Indian kid with a decidedly non Indian name. He is left wondering what kind of parents these people have, who named a Jewish kid Chris and a Desi one Lawrence. Noticing concern in Wilson's eyes, he snaps back to the question. Bennett, his former physiatrist he doesn't mind, but Kutner is both a stranger and a guy. As someone for whom new men meant new abusers, House wasn't exactly eager to meet the youth.

"New doctor can come with Samurai Jack."

"Sure." Wilson taps his hand again and leaves for the door. "Excuse me… Could bring Doctors Kutner and Bennett over? Thanks."

Soon enough, three more men are inside Houses room, him sitting up higher on the pillows. His wide eyes follow the young Desi physician with a nervous focus. The kid's cheer, unwavering in the presence of his extensive injuries, gives off a frighteningly unnatural feel.

"Hi, Greg." Anthony Bennett is the first to speak. "Any comments on our handiwork? Good, Bad, ugly?" He tries a joke.

Face down and eyes secretly flying over the visitor's faces every so often, House can't force himself to focus on Bennett's words, the kid's mood so off its viscerally wrong.

Wilson is the first to notice the distant look that keeps invading House's expression. "What is it?" He steps up.

House can only manage a glance at the totally calm Kutner.

"What?" Young doctor asks with honest innocence.

"He's scared of you." Wilson makes the obvious explicit, at which point Hashimoto's hand lands on Kutner's shoulder in preparation of escort.

"Why?"

Silence stretches on uncomfortably. It is House who ends it. "How can you not mind…?" He asks without facing the man, shocked to discover that the one thing he missed all this time, a normal interaction, is now freaking him out so much. Still he pushes on despite the audience, or perhaps because of it, to get out in the open in one go. "The last people who could were the people that did it." There, he said it, the load of forced lies fell now of all times. He curses the universe for another mocking irony, another moment of relief denied.

Kutner's face turns to sympathy, but not pity. "I've... I'v seen violence and neglect before."

In an intuitive moment House connects the dots, realizing the kid was renamed by adopters. But before adoption he must have gone though all sorts of crap. "Orphaned."

Faced with the raw exposure, Kutner is the one to turn nervous. "It's true."

"How can you be so… happy?"

"I've _seen_ things." The young man repeats, revelation implicit. "Sir, if you're uncomfortable around me I can show the exercises to doctor Wilson. You should be doing them daily, in frequent, short sets. It's just a bunch of rubber bands and balls for stretching and squeezing."

House nods.

"Well, good luck then." Kutner makes a funny face, mid way between apologetic and smiling.

House lifts a limp hand in a bad imitation of a goodbye wave, dropping it back on the supportive pillow the moment Kutner is gone. "How long do I keep the splinter."

"A week to let the tendons connect." Bennett replies. "Why did you want the leg ahead of schedule?"

"Post op hurts. Cold hurts. Storms hurt." House lists. "Surgery in December would screw up the holidays and I'd like a change."

"Can I put the other leg under January?"

"January's fine." He nods, than turns to Wilson. "Could you pack, I'd like to go home after breakfast."

"No problem."

"See you in Princeton." Bennett cautiously takes House's right hand, shakes with Wilson and leaves.

An hour later House, dressed in civvies, relishes the last grease ball in, washing it down with half a glass of shake. Rap on door announces Hashimoto, big oaf entering to pick up House's few bagged possessions, currently waiting at the foot of his bed.

Once Wilson has House in the wheelchair, Hashimoto pulls a thin paperback with creased edges. "Hope it helps."

House, wheeled out of the room, takes a magnifying glass to read the title letter by letter – 'Lucid Dreams for Dummies.' "Thank you."

"Do me a favor, pass it on." The big man replies.

"I will."


	40. Jail Break

**Jail Break**

House sighs his hearth's content as he settles lengthwise on the sofa, tapping gently a belly full of Wilson's finest - small but loaded with calories and nutrients alike.

Following the idiot's guide to lucid dreaming, he marks the change between activities with a memory check of his latest dream. Recalling a variant of his adolescent exploration of Okinawa, he pulls the Mom-made patchwork quilt atop himself, spreading it from head to toe. The weight of it is a comfort, adding to the sofa to surround him on all sides in a cocoon of non-exposure.

The combo of a working stomach, pleasant weather and comfortable sofa lull House to a light snooze, Cujo lying between him and the coffee table, ever at his side.

The bliss doesn't last, sofa turning to bumpy prison cot, worn blanket not enough to keep his skinny limbs warm. Switching sleeping and waking hours to avoid freezing on cold winter nights, he now has the trouble of keeping his mind active. Empty hours stretch on without sound or sights, just mind numbing gray hues under constant, sore neon light and a uniform hum of ventilation. He reaches into the chest of memories for some past challenge successfully solved, replaying an old case in his mind to stave off the psychosis of sensory deprivation and suicide-by-apathy depression. He savors the biting wit tossed back and forth between friendly colleagues and long overdue doctor-patient talk, sustaining himself with crumbs of satisfying human contact, the shared understanding, the non-threatening presence of others, the giving and receiving of help…

As the night progresses, his limbs stop shivering, giving up the fight. He wants so much to fall in the imagined warmth that comes in the final moments of freezing to death, but knows better than to let all of his past misery go to waste. So he quietly forces the aching body up, fearing to alert the guards with activity after the ironically named 'lights out', and paces slowly, painfully, to keep himself warm. A change, he remembers some three puny circles around the small cell, and wonders.

The wondering comes to naught, and for the first time he knows what it's like to know he is dreaming while still remaining inside the dream. The second question comes to mind:

_Is it a good dream? _

Hell no.

_What would you like to change?_

Get out.

The second he thinks this, House steps toward the door. If he's dreaming he has control of everything. If he can will things to be or not, than now he wills the door unlocked. Hesitantly his arm reaches for the cold steel. If it's unlocked it will open with a gradual push, if not, no one will mistake it for an escape attempt. Assured in the safety of his planned action, House pushes lightly.

Steel creaks on old hinges, swinging open to reveal…

A desert, its powdery sand near scalding against his bare, callous feet, yet still pleasant in its heat like a sauna. The air itself glistens in hues of gold and crimson from the setting sun and windswept dust, carrying distant voices of lively haggling Arabs.

'_Al Khaira…'_ House mouths wordlessly to himself. '…_the triumphant one._' He smiles at the locale and its fitting name, sitting down right then and there to let the warm dunes ease his weary bones. His eyes close to sun's final caress, inhaling desert's dry breath.

Yawning, House comes awake back at the apartment.

"Good dream?" Asks Wilson.

"Very." House smiles, pulling himself to sit. His eyes fall to the splintered right arm, wondering if he could take the binds off a day early. Deciding the risk is worth it he looks at Jimmy. "There's a package on my nightstand. Could you bring it here."

"Sure." Wilson goes for it while House unwraps the hand, marveling at the lack of scars or any other visible trace of stitches. He makes a mental note to thank Taub for the small grace. Hand finally free, he moves the fingers up and down a little, first together to clench and open a fist, and then, with minor discomfort, independently in a sinuous, wave-like pattern.

"House?" Wilson is expectant at the hall.

House waves him over and holds a hand out for the package. Tearing the cardboard wrapping he pulls out a small roll of plastic, unfolding an electric synthesizer on the coffee table.

By now Wilson is incredulous. "You're kidding."

"Day after tomorrow it will be five years since... you know." House says. "The first thing the bastard did is break my right pinky. … So I couldn't play." He explains. "In all future visits, whatever else he did, he always repeated that."

Wilson's face falls.

"I haven't played five years to the day." Elbows rest on knees, feet arched to provide sufficient height for his hands, dangling over the super-sensitive keys.

Ignoring the occasional twinge, House strokes the keyboard lightly, left keeping time with deep chords while the right drops solitary high-pitched notes of an easy going, optimistic melody, his eyes closed, whole body swaying slightly in time with the music. The piece builds, crescendos, repeats and trickles off softly, leaving Wilson speechless.

"Hymn, to, freedom." House punctuates each word before starting another light piece.

Wilson settles down to listen as a third piece begins, the show looking to amount to a whole concert quickly enough. Somewhere into that piece Cujo starts to bay along with the music, causing giggles and snorts from the humans.

"You think this counts as PT?" Asks House through a grin.

Wilson pats him on the back. "Better than PT and therapy together."


	41. The Good and The Bad

**The Good And The Bad**

House nervously scratches both forearms simultaneously, the new skin-tight under shirt irritating him. "Where are we going?" He asks from the passenger seat of the Volvo, stroking Cujo's coat for comfort, feeling the undercoat sprout in preparation for colder days.

"You'll see." Replies Wilson from the wheel.

House grumbles into darkness. "Don't like surprises." He keeps on expanding the scratch area up his arms. Being driven around at night in confusing, meandering paths had a habit of ending horribly, though those were usually enjoyed from the trunk.

Wilson sighs. "You'll like this one. Trust me."

Those words pacify House, as well as the fact that he has figured their destination despite Wilson's efforts. "Why are you taking me to the hospital?"

"Because." Wilson insists.

Parking in the underground garage, they take the elevator to keep Cujo from the patients and the patients from House.

On seeing Wilson punch third floor, he guess at their destination and breaks. "I don't want to go there."

"Why not?"

"Don't want to know who took over."

Wilson huffs frustrated. "Your fellows. Nobody wanted to hire them, and since diagnostics was made for you, Cuddy told them to split the office rooms between them."

"Aren't they in different departments?" House start's playing with his wrist watch, feeling another itch develop. "ICU and surgery?"

"They are, but they're also sort of… your heirs."

"I though those services are not in high demand." House pushes open a glass door, now stenciled with Chase's name and title.

"It isn't." Ausie answers in Wilson's stead. "But when the going gets tough…"

"The desperate come calling." Foreman finishes, ushering them all into the old diagnostics room where Cuddy awaits.

"So you operate what he diagnoses because no one else wants to?" House asks Foreman.

"Occasionally the other way around."

"And I have to justify it." Cuddy gives House a peck on the cheek.

House takes a moment to appraise the new decorations: sophisticated furnishing, sparse Jazz related decorations and diplomas on Foreman's side, counterpoint to Chase's clutter of tropical mementoes and casually-utilitarian furniture. "Like what you did with the place."

The young doctors share disbelieving glances before taking their places around the small glass conference table, a relic of good ol' days. Mugs and plastic cups are shared around, a finger of scotch in each.

"Only because it's an occasion." Wilson preempts any comment House might make.

He toys with the drink, rolling in between hands as his palm start to mysteriously feel hot.

"May The Bard forgive me…" Wilson whispers, the utterance heard only by House, seated next to him at the head of the table. He stands, before the dean and Greg's former fellows, the company observed from outside by half the night shift.

"Those that had no faith in his heart, let them depart, their excuse will be made." The respected man speaks pointedly to the uninvited, gesturing at the oldest doctor present. "We would not dwell in their company, who thought his fellowship would live without us." He insists.

House watches the crowd to see how well had snark hidden his true character. Honesty taking the better of them, all but one shuffle away disappointed to miss the event. The bald janitor stands awkwardly on the other side of the sliding door until House himself waves him in, and the man takes his place at the table's end.

Wilson gives a cough, urging his colleagues to stand, then raises his paper cup a little.

"This day is called the day of ransom. We that outlived the day and came safe home will stand a tip toe, and rouse him at the time of it. We that lived the day to see old age will yearly on the vigil feast our hero. Then will he stand tall with pride and-"

"…say: 'These wounds I took on Crispen's day.' " House cuts in, rolling up his sleeves.

None turn away from the marks nor stare transfixed.

He grins with mischief at Wilson. "I know that one, too."

Wilson nods pleased and continues. "People forget, as all will be forgotten, but we will remember what feats he did for us that day. Then will his name, familiar to us as a household word, be in our flowing cups remembered."

"To House the jerk." Chase toasts, company echoing his words and actions, drawing from him an embarrassed chuckle.

"This story will we teach our children." Wilson goes on. "And the day of ransom will not go by, from now till the end of the world, but he in it will be remembered."

"We few, we happy few, we band of brothers, for he who sheds his blood for me will be my brother. Be he ner so vile, this day will gladden his condition, and people of Princeton then doubting, will think themselves ashamed, and hold their honor cheap, while he speaks, who bled for us that day."

"Amen." Foreman concludes.

"Amen!" They toast and down the biting shot.

House spits the drink out, startling everybody.

"Doctor?" The janitor's shaky tone voices everyone's concern.

Finger dabs lightly at a blistered lower lip, and House notices the redness on the palm, the same that peeks form under his watch. He wonder's why Cujo's barking so loudly, it's not as if the building's on fire. Suddenly his throat start's to close up, breathing loud and labored.

"Allergy." House wheezes in desperation. "Adren…"

The world goes black.

* * *

_Shakespear's Henry the V, Saint Crispen's day speech_


	42. Friend of a Friend

**Friend of a Friend**

House, body lost somewhere in cotton sweats and wooly socks, sits in the recliner, stroking Cujo's square head. In his other hand he holds the red mug, noodles afloat in steaming soup. Throughout the room there are only natural materials: fabric, wood, ceramics. Not a hint of metal or plastic in sight. "You can go home." He tells someone while studying the tiny bite marks on his dog's fur.

"I'm on duty." A woman replies.

"Take the day off."

"Dr House, I've given up a place on the Arctic research team because of this case. I'm not leaving."

"It's a rash." He insists.

"It's an allergy reaction to synthetics and metal, which you never had before."

"Overactive immune system." He counters. "Got bored without all the germs rampaging through me."

"Don't you find it strange that you are allergic to the things you were surrounded by in jail, not the ones you were not exposed at the time?"

"You have no idea what I was exposed to."

"True, but your friends do. If this were physical the reaction would be opposite."

"My friends should have thought how I'd feel about being victimized in medical articles before asking personal favors from hot-shot shrinks."

"So you can't deny the allergy is psychosomatic." She sees right through the evasion, but keeps it in mind.

He remains silent.

"Would you talk to me if I promised not to use your case in my research?" She offers unexpectedly.

House snorts nigh perceptibly. _Like you'd pass an opportunity to milk the case of the century. _He thinks.

As if reading his mind, she adds: "I don't know if you've found out, but we started another war while you were in prison. Wrongfully imprisoned abused captives are not in short supply."

He grunts. "Thompson called his arrangement rehabilitation, so forgive me for not standing in line waiting to be fixed."

"If you were having trouble winning over ladies, would you call asking your charmer friend for advice being fixed?" Her words surprise him. "Because giving a few tips is all I'm here to do."

"That's all?"

"That's all we can ever do." She states as if it's obvious.

A moment of confused disbelief later, he nods in understanding. Antibiotics can't kill germs without an immune system, surgery can't undo structural defects without the body's repair mechanism. It is always the patient that heals on his own, doctors can only assist, guide the process, speed it up or make it easier.

He sighs, accepting. "Am I a man who dreamed he was a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming to be a man?" His earnest face looks up to a mature, attractive woman with a confusing, no quite blonde hair color.

The woman gives him a direct, open look. "You're definitely a man, and judging from your experiences, butterflies are the last thing that would bother you, so its' either the dreams themselves…" Her voice fades out. "No, you had nightmares before, and the rash appeared when you started lucid dreaming, meaning... You had hallucinations in prison, and now you fear this is just one elaborate illusion. But because you're avoiding the issue, your subconscious has chosen specific severe allergies to force you to address the fears."

"You are good, Doctor Kate." He nods in approval of Cuddy's choice, feeling his reservations shrink in the face of competence.

"I take it the nightmares were bad."

He makes a vane smile. "To put it mildly."

"And lucid dreaming worked?"

"Like a charm."

"I see." Kate nods. "How have you used it?"

"To get out." He looks at her as if she's thick. "How else?"

"To face it."

"I don't want another second of it." He spits the words out.

"Believe it or not, Doctor House, deep down we all want to be healthy. Your subconscious is not trying to prolong the abuse, it's trying to help you."

He gives her a blank look.

"The biggest problem of trauma survivors is fear. With so many things used against you, you are held captive by fear. The best way to get rid of it is exposure, either direct or gradual. The best place to do it is somewhere where you have full control of the situation." She gives him an encouraging smile.

"In my thoughts." He follows.

"A crisis is opportunity wrapped up in danger. The dreams are not a torture chamber, they are a battle field. The goal is not to escape but to overcome."

"What do I do?"

"Fight them, defeat them. Escape, but not from the dream, _in_ the dream."

"How? I can't stand up to five guards." He implores.

"Why? Not strong enough? It's your dream. You can do anything you want."

"I'm afraid of them. Just thinking about them makes me tense up. Even now."

"And you will be afraid of them, probably for the rest of your life. But that doesn't mean there's nothing else to draw on."

"Like what? Courage?" He almost mocks her, almost.

"Courage is not an emotion in itself." Kate elaborates. "It's the effect of a motivation stronger than fear. You have the motivation already. Now find an emotion to fuel it."

House stares down in Cujo's hazel eyes, quickly losing hope as his efforts to find one such keep ramming him up a brick wall of misery. "I… I can't. I tried so long not to feel, I… "

"Because everything was bad." She assumes.

"Or useless." House offers, than realizes he's fallen for the trick. _You are good._

"How come?"

"Resisting only makes things worse." He says in a distant, haunted voice.

"They would treat you worse?"

"They would get Jimmy."

"You do realize that can't happen in a lucid dream." She reminds. "If you could have responded in any way, any way you wanted, no consequences whatsoever, what would you have done?"

Hate the kind of which he never knew is possible swells in his chest, and a lifetime of pent up rage starts throwing nasty, violent desires. "Beat them to death with my bare hands."

"Do it."

He blinks.

"He would treat you better?"

"No, but..."

"Worried that its wrong? It's the only healthy response. Look, if you still feel that way after everything else is fixed, I'll help you sort with that out for free."

"And… that's it? All I gotta do is beat the crap out of them?"

Kate chuckles. "God no! That's just the start of it." She smirks, luring him to do the same. "But the allergies should subside when you stop running and vent."

"I can deal with it." He takes a sip.

She smiles. "I never doubted it."

"What about the fear?"

"Controlled exposure. First imaginary than real. And calming exercises. But first let's take care of the rash."

"Okay."

"Same time next week?"

He nods. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." She rises from the sofa. "I'll see myself out."

"Goodbye, Doctor Milton."

"Pleasant dreams." She shuts the door.

House turns back to Cujo. "Es no era tan duro." House admits the talk didn't go all that bad. "Tengo razón?"

Cujo happily barks to confirm.

"Ella es doctor muy buen. Hmmm? Que usted piensa? Ess ella buen doctor?" He asks is Cujo approves of the psychologist.

Cujo barks again, twice.

"Pensé tan también." House agrees.


	43. Animal Inside

**Animal Inside**

For hours on end he tugs hopelessly at the chain binding him to the wall, the dull and repetitive time-waster stopped only by the jarring creak of section doors being opened. The sound makes all negative emotions known to man arise in his guts. Bootleg's heavy steps stomp over hard floor in time with his hyperactive heart, blood hissing and gushing in his ears.

As cell doors open he feels it change enough, and asks himself what did he dream tonight. Discovering he hasn't, realization dawns that he is dreaming presently.

"The dreams are not a torture chamber..." Milton's words echo in his mind. "…they are a battle field. The goal is not to escape but to overcome."

Bootleg strides in cockily, a smug, vile grin on his face. "Time to take you for a limp, ya smelly flea bag." Guard sniggers at the pun, yanking the chain linked to his collar, the sole purpose of which is further humiliation.

But House, ego left far behind, is immune to the teasing, and like a dog beaten one time too many he snaps, adrenalin surging as if from a newly dug well. Tension of a coiled spring makes his body hair stand up, long, dark and thick, and suddenly he is transformed to something feral, growling and snarling with rage beyond words, fists clenching with inhuman power.

Bootleg and company seem blind to the transformation, still throwing insults House does not hear. House looks up at Bootleg for the first time in months, his eyes no longer the blues of despair but hardened spheres of ice. Even in the gloom his senses are sharp and clear like cut diamond, so he doesn't need to glance away from Bootleg's face to see the man reach behind his back for a baton.

Hose hurls himself at the guards with all his force, shredding shackles as if they were cotton tuffs and using every jutting bony joint of his body as a weapon, slamming into the trio with all the rage and loathing piling pent up in his aching chest.

Teargas burns in eyes and lungs as batons and bullets sting, but all that is mere smoldering ash in comparison to the firestorm that consumes his mind. He goes all out bestial, yellow unkempt teeth and nails slashing like claws and fangs until he rests on all fours in the middle of a circle of broken, bruised and bloodied bodies, heaving in spent rage.

He tries to stand up again but the bad leg gives, bones and muscles once again thin and weak, eaten from within. With the ache back, House limps out like an old, starved and beaten lone wolf he is, one open gate after another beckoning to freedom where hopefully he will lick his wounds healed.

Outside there's nothing but cold night rain beating down on mud mixed up with sharp rocks, the world poking and cutting still.

"WILSON!" House croaks hoarsely into obscuring fog. "I wanna go home!" He mumbles with weary desperation. "Clarence! Somebody, help me. … Anybody. …please…"

A wind picks up from nowhere, from everywhere, howling and hissing, calling his name in a whispery tone, a strangely familiar female voice.

He looks around, turning on three shaky limbs. "Who are you? Where are you?"

Pale light fades in at the edge of his vision, luminous humanoid shape blurry in the mist, growing closer, larger, clearer. She is a woman of indeterminable age, ghostly pale, her gown flowing behind in a nonexistent breeze. She is Alison, but also Esther and Thompson's kid Samantha. But most of all she is his guilty conscious, looming terrifyingly tall above his puny self, face fluid but eyes always the same angry gray, unmoved by his plight.

Parched lips open not to plead help but beg mercy before realizing her presence is answer in itself, an unequivocal refusal. House bows his head in silent deference, heart heavy and hollow. The second she is gone his limbs loose strength, body splayed belly down in the dirty grit, feeling frost seep to his very core. Lost, tired and alone, House stops resisting years of tiredness, the emptiness so inviting…


	44. Take This Burden

**Take This Burden**

Untold hours he drifts in the limbo between dreams and reality, devoid of all sensation. When he finally does wake it is to memories that bring such heartrending anguish he wills himself to dream again, preferring nightmares of thought-stopping pain to the internal torment of unforgivable guilt. Lost in the dismal black abyss he stares unseeingly at the far wall, oblivious to tears slowly filling his eyes, flooding and overflowing to a vaguely perceived wetness on his face.

From below a low whine escapes, building to yelps of worry. Furry warmth prods and pokes for a response, puffs of heat stroking his cheek, ear, neck, all in vain. Rushed feet approach and he stiffens breathless at the appearance of a large body in his field of view, but returns instantly to all consuming sorrow when an unfocused black face lowers eye to unseeing eye, vaguely filed under not-dangerous. Words of concern fly right by him, the big hand gently tapping and shaking his arm is unable to break the spell.

More yelps and whines follow as the black man leaves, his distant voice steeped in fear. As if through a sample of an unknown foreign language, House picks up Wilson's name without context, but does not stir from the sound of it. The same gentle tone compels him to speak, strong arm covering and kneading his own.

Moments or months later, Jimmy is at his side, but not even his presence can draw house out from catatonia. At first the words and actions make no difference, but over time a plea sinks slowly and steadily to House's mind.

"Don't let them win." The voice echoes in the depth of his mind, over and over until the world starts coming back gradually. Senses reporting in one by one: Cujo's body heat against his back, wight of head and paws on his thin waist, dry smell of lint particles dancing in and out of light shafts from late morning sun and finally Jimmy's worried voice, which makes House wonder why.

A light is shyly rekindled in tear filled blues, blank lines sinking to mirror the depth of his sadness at the realization of cause.

"I'm sorry." He utters in a cracking voice, closing his eyes to avoid the undeserving care coming from chocolate colored ones. "So sorry."

"It's all right. Don't apologize for it." A handkerchief wipes his bloated face. "I'm not mad you scared me. I'm glad you're still with us. Let it all out. … I should have known you'd only now get to grieve her."

"No." House tucks is chin to chest, resisting the humbling kindness shown to him. "Take me back." His voice is frightened even as he says it.

"What, where?"

"I deserve it." He mumbles.

"No." Wilson is stunned yet solid in his conviction.

"She's dead because I blew him off." House finally admits, weight of shame driven secrecy falling from his chest even as the bigger burden remains. "He would have left her alone if I- If I told him like you tell-" Words turn to incomprehensible dribble and he sniffles loudly, bereft of self consciousness.

Wilson sighs, wiping his nose. "You don't deserve that. No one does."

"I know."

"Then why?"

House gulps. "Because this is worse."

Wilson's eyes slide shut in wordless sympathy. "Clarence." He turns to the waiting orderly. "Call doctor Chase. Tell him it's an emergency."

"Choir boy can't help me." House argues. "Nobody can help me." He mutters hopeless.

Sensing danger of relapse, Cujo steps over his master and charge to snuggle close at the man's front, muzzle pressing against unshaven jaw underside. House wraps his arm over the huge animal's chest, pulling it closer and scooting up as if it's a teddy bear. He neither notices nor reacts to the ceaseless licking or to Wilson leaving, apathy kicking in again.

When Robert arrives House can't miss the bags under his eyes, doubtless from insomnia and crying, not surprised to see this particular anniversary fall heavily on his former fellow. Neither man speaks, and House does nothing to stop Chase from sitting on the opposite corner of the bed.

"I know you don't believe there's anyone out there, but studies have shown that talking about issues helps alleviate them." He appeals to House's rational side.

Cujo leaps to the floor boards, allowing House to sits up, head on matress. The dog peers from below their eye level, quiet, concerned and expectant of his master's actions.

Older man sighs to himself, watching hands wrung together as if in prayer. "The trouble with not believing in anyone out there is that there is no one out there to forgive you. You gotta fix things here and now. Undo the damage, make reparations… Except when you can't. … Which is great for prevention but shitty once the deed is done. … I can't bring her back and no amount of nothing is ever gonna make it right."

"Why not apologize to her parents?"

"I did. At the sentencing." He gulps. "They said I should have died instead. ... They were right."

"They were wrong." Chase insists. " They were angry and eren't thinking straight. They didnt know the truth. And the truth is no one should have died. Not you, not Alison, not anyone. Samantha's death was enough. And even that should not have happened."

"I've… tried to contact them after coming back. They're ignoring me." He glances at the youth who is now staring at his own lap.

"Maybe they're too ashamed to speak to you."

"Of what?"

"Wishing you pain when all you did is buy Alison a few more months to live… Blaming you while benefiting from you?" He adds apologetically.

"I'm sorry I've caused his wrath." House offers.

"I'm sorry I've turned a blind eye to the clues." Chase returns.

"You shouldn't have intervened." House absolves him. "It would have only made things worse."

Chase shakes his head. "He couldn't have killed us all. We should have done something. We shouldn't have let you deteriorate, even if it was just drugs and gambling. Had we've given you one percent of the effort you give a random patient none of this would have happened."

"Or if I gave him one percent of your common courtesy." House adds.

The two look up simultaneously, sharing the same regret, their mutual guilt nullifying one another till all that's left is sad acceptance.

"Do you want to see her parents?" Chase offers.

"I'd like that." House mutters, surprised at his own desires.

Robert gets up, walking round the bed to House's side, a hand offered. "Let's get you dressed."

House frowns. "Now?"

"I'm meeting them at noon."

He gulps, nervous.

"If you'd like we can-"

"No." He interrupts. "No, I'll be-" He would most definitely not be fine. And yet... "I'll handle it."

* * *

_A little something for all you Cujo lovers:  
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	45. Meet the Parents

**Meet the Parents**

Sight of the cemetery is surprisingly stunning, clear cobalt sky counterpoint crimson maples foliage hanging on well into November with only a little leaves crisply scattered on the ground among golden, withering grass.

Chase pushes House in, Cujo following on a very short leash to keep him from making a stinky claim of the place or anything in it.

House clutches the leash handle nervously, a recently bought wreath of ten white lilies in his covered lap, one petal for each senselessly wasted year. By the end of the road he sees a sorrow aged couple, their features reminiscent of Alison's.

Cujo looks up attentively at House's subtle signs of discomfort, but neither man nor dog make any attempt to hold off the encounter.

"Robert," The father greets. "Dr House."

"Sir." House replies is a quiet rasp. "Ma'am." Uttering the curt titles brings back a grating unease.

The expected exchange of guilt and forgiveness is forestalled by an uncomfortable yet understandable question.

"Why her?" Asks the father.

House knows the deeper reason: that Thompson knew how strongly he felt and still feels about closest colleagues, and that Wilson dubbed his fellows 'the kids'. But he can't bring himself to break them by citing the lawyer's answer: _"An eye for an eye."_ Instead he chooses a lie most likely to honor her memory. "She found out what was going on." He omits the fact it happened after her capture.

"How did she die?" The woman enquires hesitantly, clutching her husband's arm.

House knows they aren't interested in the method. "She was unconscious instantly."He removes their fear of a painful passing. "She cried when they brought me in, but once she figured what was happening she… Calmed." He is as surprised to say it as they are to hear it. "When she looked at me it was like she was trying to say 'It's okay. I understand.' " A thought strikes him, granting a peaceful kind of hope. "Alison was so empathic she didn't have time to be afraid. She could have died miserably but didn't."

The Camerons huddle closer, comforted by his words and the intense honesty with which they are spoken, even a small, teary smile of relief appearing briefly on their faces. The sight alone is enough to take away most of the sting he feels. Alison's mother steps closer and he tenses, Cujo standing up alert. A moment's hesitance after she clasps his gnarly left hand in her wrinkled one, a look of gratitude in her eyes. Perhaps because of who it's from, House doesn't feel beneath such a gesture. Again he finds that when you most need to say or hear something, you can't, but also don't have to.

Without a word the father urges his wife to leave and the couple departs with only a glance in farewell, returned equally by both Chase and House, who now feels a lightness to himself he can barely recall experiencing before.

House gives the leash over to Chase and wheels himself to a dark polished slab with Alison's name engraved on the mirror like surface. He stares at the smiling photo with platonic affection and loss.

A thought forms out of nowhere, not visual or verbal but emotional. _"You took a piece of me with you... I'll do the same."_

He doubles over to place the flowers, concealing the second date in a gesture of wane desire to undo the tragedy. Straightening up, he sighs heavily. "Let's go."

Both men are silent on the drive back, as they were on arrival, but this time the peace of closure has replaced nervous awkwardness. House enjoys the backseat position, a balance between oversight and shelteredness coming from direct visual exposure on only one side. His mind sways between soaking the autumn mood and considering recent changes.

Half way home House interrupts the silence. "When Wilson called for you… why did you come?"

"Because it was an emergency." Chase glances by way of rearview mirror.

"You had other plans."

"I had an hour of free time."

"You didn't know how long it would last." House pushes.

"I would have stayed as long as it took."

House needs more reassuring. "You didn't even know what it was."

"I knew Wilson would not have called me if he didn't think I could be the best person to help you. Allison-" He shuts up, swallows. "Either she can't be help or doesn't need it."

The answer satisfies House, but only temporarily. "Her parents-"

"Understand what an emergency is." Chase catches himself barking back in growing irritation. "Sorry."

House ignores both the snap and subsequent apology. "I'm thinking about founding some sort of medical institution… research institute or patient care. Maybe a wing at Princeton-Plainsborough."

"Cuddy'd love a new donor."

"Would she have a problem with Thompson's millions?"

"It's misery money. Time it alleviates some."

"Redemption." House follows. "I was thinking something related to chronic conditions."

"Makes sense."

"Most likely to deal with immunity problems." House see's Robert's knuckles whiten form the death-grip on the wheel. "Infectious diseases, cancer, autoimmune, allergies, transplant rejections, deficiencies…"

Chase blinks repeatedly. "That… that sounds good. Lot of bang for the buck."

"I think quality of life will be a big factor. Personalized palliative care."

"Good motives." Younger man endeavors to keep his voice controlled.

"Don't know how to call it, though." House subtly sends out a feeler for suggestions.

"Cameron wing for patient care, House for the research labs."

"Sounds good." House echoes, ending the exchange in agreement.

* * *

**Author's note:**

For the purpose of writing this story I have attempted to identify with a person who has endured incomprehensible hardships,  
was robbed of everything positive, and has yet to face overwhelming odds to heal.  
Endeavoring to assume that perspective increased my awareness and appreciation of life.

To DIY Sheep, for the inspiration which enabled it, I thank you.  
To the dear readers, may you gain in reading everything I found in writing and more.

Peace

_'Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free,  
'tis a gift to come down where you ought to be_

_'Tis a gift to be loved and that love to return,  
'Tis a gift to be taught and a richer gift to learn_

_'Tis a gift to have friends and a true friend to be,  
'Tis a gift to think of others not to only think of "me"  
_


	46. A Change Is Coming

_All the best in your new year_,_ readers._

**A Change Is Coming**

A gloomy noon creeps on the crest of a week long storm front, finding House bedridden from constant pain, curled under mountainous covers. Leg rests on the curve of a body pillow, atrophying in the overdue cast from waiting for an improvement in weather for its removal. An occasional groaning writhe punctuates the rumble of rain on windowpanes, followed by Cujo's worried whine. Footfalls from the hallway announce Clarence's arrival, culminating with a subtle rap on the bedroom door. He grunts an intelligible 'enter'.

"Hey doc." The man quietly greets, his weight dipping the mattress just behind House, hand kneading upthrust shoulder. "Need anything?"

"Tipsy wearing off." He mumbles.

"One cocktail coming." Clarence speaks with a smile to his voice, nightstand drawer grating open. "Just gonna pull your sleeve up, okay?" He forewarns.

House lets him manipulate the arm, fine hairs taunt in colder air. Slight sting is small price for relief the mix of fake opium and ganja, painkiller and antiemetic, bring almost instantly, mostly by placebo.

"There's something wrong with a society that only lets you have the good stuff when you're too sick to enjoy it." He mumbles for no reason, making Clarence chukle.

"Doc Wilson will come to pick you up soon." The orderly reminds. "I'm gonna have to dress you."

Proud and private, House would in any other circumstance refuse vehemently, insisting on taking care of his own basic needs. But even with his original personality restored after the ordeal, he has proven abilities necessary for relative independence time enough to feel all right with an occasional lapse. "Go ahead."

When Clarence pulls him up to remove the pajama top, he merely leans his forehead on the man's burly chest and allows himself undressed. Aware of his charge's sensitive and half sleeping state, Clarence acts with patient gentleness, washing, dressing and undressing, all announced in advance so as not to accidentally frighten.

As the antiemetic soothes an upset stomach, House is overcome by loud, gut wrenching spasms, almost folded double in the recliner.

"Hungry?" Asks Clarence.

House makes a long, disinterested grunt. "Throw up later."

"Just some low fat milk and honey." He coaxes. "It'll distract your stomach a while 'n' pass real fast. Won't have time to come back. "

"Okay."

Clarence taps him on the shoulder and retreats to the kitchen shortly, returning an unknown time later in a cloud of soothing, aromatic mist. Red mug sneaks into Houses hands, its heat a balm to the bones of his fingers. Tipping the mug with both hands, House sips the saturated drink, sweetened to an almost unpleasant amount. By the time the mug is empty he does feel better, so much so he quickly falls asleep to make up for a night of restlessness, but Wilson's timely arrival brings his sleep to a premature end.

House, still a bit out from the drugs and sleep, mumbles a greeting in reply to Wilson and picks up fragments of the conversation between Clarence and him, detailing low points of the difficult morning: skipped exercise, negligible breakfast and extra medication. His participation in the talk is a weak protest as he realizes Cujo can't follow him to the hospital, a protest quickly finished by Wilson's call to reason and promise to only be there briefly.

After Cujo's slobbery attempt at cheering him up, House is shifted to the car in a rumble of rain on umbrella. The ride goes by literately unseen as he returns to sleeping though the pain. On arrival he is shaken from lethargy to anxiousness, whether from the fading medicine or proximity to the event which both attracts and repulses him.

Inside the hospital, steel panes merge to a seamless wall, turning the elevator pod to a suffocating metal closet. What for any normal person is a dull few seconds is for House a dreaded reminder of the coffin-like 'hole', his bare-walls solitary cell. Closing his eyes to block out the unwanted sight, he breathes deep and slow from the belly, counting the seconds to keep a resonance of panic from growing to heart attack levels. His rational mind takes refuge in numbers, their emotionless rhythm a tangible reminder of time passing, the stressful period of waiting gradually shrinking to nothing. It's an old trick he did at the worst of times, taking comfort from the truism that this too shall pass, even when _this_ was his entire miserable life.

Because even if the cast saw is a tool of improvement that brought mobility of one hand, and was never used against him despite treats of mutilation, the threats themselves and helplessness of his situation, is enough to drive him mad just by thinking of it. That its noise is nigh identical to the dental drill, which was used as an implement of torture merely by the lack of anesthetic in justified procedures, does not make things easier.

Finally a jerk urges him to look, clang opening the elevator door to a hall busy with staffers. Wilson pushes House out when he notices the man is too stunned to drive on his own. Anthony Bennett waits for them on the far end, a guard at the gateway to orthopedics.

"Hi House, Wilson." He greets, door held open for the two who greet back. "Let's get you out of that thing." The physiatrist ushers them in the casting room and assembles tools for the job to House's growing dismay.

Sight of hand reaching for saw triggers a five second recurrence of starvation induced arrhythmia, an enduring bittersweet souvenir of a time when heart failure was hope of salvation, but no more. For all the self assurance he has with the people daily with him, House can't muster sufficient force to make a demand. "Could you give me something for the nerves?" He asks instead, head low as he fishes two ear plugs from the coat pocket.

"How bout we try a little less than before?" Wilson suggests, due to the meds he already got.

"A little." He accepts, sound fading to white-noise hum, eyes down on the pattern of lines on his long hands. Twang of iodine fills the air, quick swipe and sting on forearm ushering the calming tide of chemicals. Roar muffled to rumble does not bother him much in the slow, unresponsive state, but vibrations do make him breathe uneasy, cold sweat budding.

"You with us House!?" Bennett ducks down to see his face.

With a jerky nod he urges the man to continue, to get over with it. As the noise continue he returns to counting, though this time it takes him several second for each number, what with the stress and drugs combating it. At about hundred the shaking ceases, Bennett removing the halved cast and whipping a solid, straightened leg clean of gypsum grit.

House studies the limb regardless of sedatives, unaffected by the look of unused muscles shrunk to post-rescue size, skin in need of scrubbing a dirty, pale hue.

"Mind if I take it for a test drive?" Bennett asks, strong hands already around his ankle and thin thigh.

"Kay." House speaks, not present enough to have a real complaint, to remember that shortened tendons are another side effect of immobility. So the burn racing up his calve draws out a helpless whine, Wilson immediately giving a supportive squeeze.

"It's all right, House. It's all right." Tony soothes. "Tell me when to stop and I will. I'm just going to see if you can twist the ankle, all right?"

Still crestfallen, he nods.

This time Bennett is paying closer attention to his face, slightest change of expression signal enough of House's range of motion. "Nice." He encourages approvingly on managing a full circle, if limited in angle. "Very nice. Clarence drilled you like I told him?"

"Daily." Wilson answers for him. "I've made him report every result. House can bench a hundred on a good day."

"That's great." Tony flashes a bright smile. "You'll be limping in no time, House."

House nods grinningly at the skewed encouragement as he straightens the pant leg, suddenly too wide for effective insulation.

After the trio of doctors bids each other goodbye, Wilson gives House a tour of the building, for a quick hello to his former boss and underlings, before driving back home where Cujo jumps them in exuberant welcome.

"Tub's hot, fresh orange juice for later... Guess that's it, Doc." Clarence shakes his hand carefully, than Wilson's.

"Say hi to your brother." Wilson is ever courteous, and perhaps wistful on account of his missing one.

"You say hi to the misses." Clarence replies, giving Cujo a vigorous rub. "See you next week."

"Come on." Wilson closes the door behind Clarence and wheels House down the hall. "Let's get that leg clean already."

The bath is indeed hot, the burst of air making him sweat so much his clothes are soaking before Wilson can help him out of them.

"I'll just sit here on the throne..." He sumps to the draped toilet lid with a huff, heat sapping him of strength but also easing his pain. "…you fill the tub."

"Yes your honor."

The second hot water strikes ceramics, the bathroom room fills with steam, and it, combined with heat, does wonders for his throbbing limbs.

"God, this is good!" He groans in bliss. "I gotta get me a sauna. Maybe we could turn this place into one." The drugs inspire him.

"Seriously?"

"Why not? 'Bout time this place sees some improvement."

Wilson smiles. "Indeed."


	47. Family Matters

**Family Matters  
**

"Here we are." John's voice pokes through grogginess.

House squints, Kansas sunset in his eyes. "Already?" Eyes adjust to the light, taking in the sight of a white painted down town, snow like powdered sugar.

"Already." His father leaves the car to fetch the chair out of the trunk, driver doors clicking open to a rush of cold air that makes House shiver in the back seat, clean shaven face tingling without protective stubble. "Need a hand?"

"Not yet." House shifts from seat to seat.

Cujo hops out after his charge, the Bernie in him reveling in frisk, alpine air.

House drives up a slight incline cleaned of snow, arriving at a pair of planks placed over porch steps. "I'll wheel, you keep me from rolling back between pushes."

A true marine, John obeys without comment and holds the door open, Cujo trotting in first as an advanced scout and shaking himself snow free in the lobby.

"Welcome home, my boys." Blythe strides from the kitchen to embrace him.

"Hi, mom." He lets her kiss him, tensing up at the invasion force of Houses surrounding them: cousins, in laws, nieces and nephews, watching with everything from pity to respect, all laced with a lost, 'what do I do?' vibe. Their attention feeds his nerves, which turns Cujo defensive, his posture threatening, which in turn makes the audience even less oriented, the spiral complete.

Aunt Sarah makes a dramatic cough and steps forward through the crowd. "How are you, Greg?" She catches herself on seeing House tense from the use of his first name. "Feeling any better?" The question is delivered with a blend of politeness, concern and awkwardness.

"Midwest anticyclone is treating me good." He admits.

Others follow her example, cautiously approaching House for a handshake while Cujo's subtly warning body language makes sure they take their time doing it and so not overwhelm him. Counter to that, the teens stand well away of the man who is at one relative and stranger, staring wordlessly uncertain at each other and glancing with nervous curiosity at him.

"Come, on Sarah, those yams won't peel themselves." Blythe saves the day by pulling the women contingent back to the kitchen, kids trickling out the back door at first chance, leaving House with the big boys.

House parks himself in the geriatric section between armchairs confiscated by his father and uncle, among familiar faces of old, as opposed to the less known and therefore more threatening youth of nephews and in laws. Crackling warmth of a fireplace lit up for festive mood removing temporary chill, he silently fixes his sights at the large screen TV, hoping the football would get him out of focus.

"Beer?" Offers one cousin amicably, eager to normalize things, his effort doomed from the start.

"No alcohol. Doctor's orders."

"Some chips then?"

House shakes his head silently, guilty for not giving them timely notice.

"Kay…" The man leans back, uncomfortable.

The game draws everyone's attention as a charge begins, monosyllabic cries of opposite intentions building to shouts, but the action crescendo is severed by an inventive player.

"Who's the midfielder?" He asks.

"'Are you serious?" A young in-law burst unthinkingly.

Voices of professional TV commentators over exuberant fans accentuates the absence of live conversations. As grateful as House is for anything and everything these days, from clean clothes to candies, he feels like fleeing. A subtle tug on sleeve gets him John's attention. "Could you help me to the room. Didn't get much sleep tonight." He immediately feels the need to supply an excuse.

"Sure." John accepts without questions, an unwise move for someone inexperienced in handicap care. Most likely acting on memory of Clarence's response to the birthday cake incident, John scoops junior up bridal style. House's added weight and John's diminishing strength make the trip needlessly difficult for one and humiliating for the other.

House sends a single though prayer to the unproven god, hoping John will neither falter not ask for a second pair of hands. His prayer is answered by the vicinity of the study/guest room, merely feet behind the armchairs. Cujo follows them in the bedroom, understanding, sympathetic eyes locked with House's.

John sits his son on the single bed and starts looking increasingly lost on what to do next.

"That's all, dad." House says, seeing relief shine in the senior's eyes. "I can handle the rest."

"I'll knock at dinner time."

"I'm sure you will." House scoots to the upper end of his bed and pulls his legs under cover as John leaves. His sport-style travel bag is already waiting by the bed, most likely brought in by John while he was meeting the family.

A player and thick text book with embossed title are retrieved from the side pocket of his sport-style travel bag. Ear buds in, the textbook is and opened on a marked page, blank but for densely packed bumps. Despite improving vision and sliding font of the digital textbooks, on paper he still reads faster by feel than sight. Eyes closed, fingertips slide over relief text, diagnostic statists pouring into a waiting mind as he rehearses for the re-licensing finals, old style jazz beat providing a learning-friendly environment.

Driven by instinct to keep people warm, Cujo joins him on the bed, sprawled over his legs with front feet and head hanging off the edge, tongue lolled out.

Three chapters later, House is taken by the disappearance of weight from his lower body, ears attentive to the beat of paws on carpet soft over the music.

"Don't worry." A boy speaks form the door. "I won't hurt him."

Blue eyes open incredulous to the sight of a black haired six year old fearless in the presence of a dog bigger than himself. Then again, Cujo is also descended from gentle giants with a soft spot for kids. "Who 'r' 'u?" He rasps.

"Will."

House frowns, recognizing on him features of a younger cousin, a closer and more familiar relative. "Emma's kid."

The boy nods.

Suddenly he figures she is not his cousin but niece, which would make the kid something like a grandson. When did he get to be so old? To his astonishment, Will strokes Cujo as if it's the most normal thing in the world, with utter innocence of being unable to imagine anything different.

"Why are you hiding?" The boy asks harmlessly.

House smirks at the perceptiveness. "I freak people out."

"You don't freak me out." Will is honest.

"Nice to know."

"Will, don't bother Greg." The boy's mother chimes in from outside.

"He's not." House waves her off.

"We're just talking, mom." Will explains.

"Okay then."

House turns back to Will, who's attention is on something in his bag. "You play chess?" He fishes out a game chest, assuming that's the item of interest.

"A little." The boy replies, himself taking a large black notebook while House divides the playing pieces. "This is weird."

House is momentary dismayed at the sight of his memory log, written on Kate's urging for the alleged therapeutic effects of catharsis, but sighs in relief on remembering it is written in code. "It's phonetic." He explains, setting up the board. "Write as your read, read as you write. The Slavic way."

"Cool." Will leaves the notebook casually on the bed, open on a random page, covered form rim to rim, top to bottom, by large letters easy to distinguish, geometric single stroke symbols without punctuation. "I call dibs."

"Rascal." He flips the board halfway set up, and continues placing the chips with Wills help.

The two play an unorthodox match, Will unusually clever for his age and free of formal education, pulling unexpected, refreshing moves. Between trying to downplay his skills and handling unforeseen maneuvers, House doesn't not notice Will peeking at the text between moves.

"Reyn." Will reads to House's astonishment and fear. "Uind … Aysy… Soakd … Kold … Frizing"

House recognizes the event and is sucked into it. Hallucination revisited, he is unable to stop Will due to paralyzing anguish, memory anticipating every word.

"_Dad yelling. Mom gone, anguish, hollow, broke her heart, your fault."_

"sory" Will continues, so intent on the puzzle he is oblivious to the implications of content. "Rjektd, disapyntmnt, feylyr, empti, namb, sobing."

House feels each word like a body blow, eyes watering up with unshed tears.

"Fists, stiil nakls, kraking bouns, namb, faling, hard asflt, mud, buut kiks, kidnis." Strange recital turns the house eerily silent, everyone captivated. "Peyn, wiik, tayrd, ekspayre, nat alaud to, dont ker, Mom gan, Dad rjektd, gilty, aloun, mejk it go auey, ekspayr, mejk it bi ovr."

Suffocating silence fills the house in stark contrast to the chorus of conversations and friendly arguments that he heard on arrival.

House can picture relatives frozen dumbstruck, humiliation compounding on distress.

"Nightmare." Will says nonplussed, his words as true for the five minute dream as they are for the five year torment.

House swallows sniffle to hide his reaction and clears his throat before speaking. "Nightmare." The whisper is not much raspier for the crying bout.

The same sound and rhythm of steps as before announces to House Emma's return, niece hesitant to enter the guest room.

"Will." Emma calls from the door, her voice quiet intensity. "What did I tell you about reading people's diaries?"

"He didn't say I couldn't." Will pines.

"I don't think he said you could, either. Go outside and play with your brother."

"But we're in the middle of a game."

"And if you hadn't started reading, you'd still be playing. Now go."

"Fine." Will leaves pouting.

"Sorry." She whispers while closing the door.

Notebook in hand, He is deaf to her apology. One hand goes reflexively on Cujo's back, the other reaching for the key pendant round his neck, hanging onto it like a drowning man would a lifeline, tiny piece of metal the last enduring link to sanity. The practical item is also a personal amulet, symbol of returned control over his life.

"_You can go when you like, return when you need, let in who you want, keep out who you chose." _Wilson's words echo in memory. One stray thought occurs to him, a deep, intense gratitude for the peaceful sense of security the ability brings.

He replays the scene of receiving his key copy to ward off worse memories, followed by recollections of other positive milestones. And then, tentatively he starts looking forward to things, only to plunge back into fear of disappointment, of aiming too high. Torn between hope and worry, he is surprised to find nighttime when pulled to the present by a knock.

John enters cautious, almost spooked, but House straightens to attention on reflex, authority still making him tense. "Dinner?"

"In twenty minutes." Johns speaks, quietly shutting the door. "That wasn't a nightmare." A hint of question to his tone, hoping to be corrected. "That's why you believed she was dead."

House nods, seeing his father sit by his side out of the corner of his eye.

"Why would you imagine that?"

House drops into the pile of cushions, frustrated at how to explain, at having to explain, at being reminded. Science becomes a way to distance himself from the subject enough to explain. "First law of developmental psychology: Common kinds of attention and reward received in childhood become favored motivators in adulthood. Kinds of neglect and punishment become worst torment. Self inflicted included. In this case disapproval."

"That's why they set you up so many times. They wanted to make you feel worthless by convincing everyone you are."

"You." He corrects, John not following. "Not everyone. Just you."

John sighs. "At court... I didn't know-"

"Not because-" He heaves to keep control. "Before. Whatever I did. Or didn't. No good."

John is left slack-jawed. "You think-? God…" He sighs. "It's when people stop giving advice that they've given up on you."

House snorts. "Yours didn't sound like advice."

"Greg..."

He flinches. "Sorry. There's not much they haven't used against me. One way or the other."

"I am grateful to have you back, son. Grateful to have you _for _a son." John says, voice free of doubts on paternity or parental disappointment. So different from the _'No son of mine' 'who says I am'_ angry teen argument that precipitated a summer long absence of communication and decades of avoidance.

So different House feels it is only a recent change of heart. "And before? Were you grateful then?"

"You mean of the genius doctor? Or the graduate that gave up a comfy position to cure smallpox in a war torn land? Or the expert who's guidelines got into CDC's protocol?"

House is surprised his father even knows about it.

"Buddy from counter-bio-terrorism." John explains off handedly, than huffs. "I hoped you'd follow in my steps because every time you didn't I wondered if you were mine at all. But you shitting on the corps and joining going to volunteer in Somalia... I knew you were a true House."

House stares bewildered.

"Do you know how frustrated your grandfather was when I enlisted? He was a big shot merchant. wanted me to take over, add to the family wealth. And I volunteer to get myself killed half way round the world? For some people no one ever heard of? … When you took off for Africa, I knew for certain you were mine."

"And I knew for certain I wasn't." He mutters. "Why were you mad then?"

"You got destructive after the leg. Loosing friends, taking drugs. And it was getting worse."

"They found me." He explains.

"I know that now!" He shouts, immediately collecting himself. "Then… I was afraid you'd lose it, throw your life away. And it happened. So I was mad."

"Again." House says bitterly.

"Again." John admits. "But not anymore. … Now, hurry or we won't get a bite of mom's sweet potato pie."

"No chair..." House muses shortly before placing an arm across the shorter man's shoulders, himself held up by a bear hug round the ribcage. Slowly he stands up on one unsteady leg, other hanging half contracted as Senior carries most of his weight. "You walk, I'll hop. Whatever you do, do not let go."

"Never. Ready? A one..."


	48. Concessions and Compromises

**Concessions and Compromises**

House steps out of Wilson's car very gingerly, clutching metallic doorframe with both hands, his fingers numbing from frost through cloth lined leather gloves. On by one, Wilson hands over a pair of sturdy, ambulance-grade crutches, helping the older man settle into each. House's arms shake, and it's not from infirmity, for Clarence prepped him good. A racing pulse and clogged throat provide the answer.

Jitters.

He doesn't remember the last time he had jitters. Even in college tests were faced with either calm of confidence or reckless carelessness, depending on amount or lack of preparation, but never nerves.

Then again, he never had to prove his competence to himself, because he never had reason to doubt it. Now, with the oral test so close it's nearly tangible, he can barely keep calm.

Wilson's grip on the forearm is gentle but steady, a reassurance guiding him across the underground parking lot shielded from biting wind and helpless sun alike. In the elevator House closes his eyes for a short breather, standing still with weight distributed evenly between two arms and a leg, but the too soon ping urges him on.

The administrative wing of ground floor is free of curious patients, and only a short walk separates them from the dean's office. Down a hall to his side is the main amphitheater where a hundred or so med students are taking their tests also, but they are half his age and don't yet have their identity linked irrevocably to an occupation. Their sense of self worth is not vested on the outcome of the test.

He steps forth anyway, determined to end the tension one way or another, reminding himself there he can always re apply for the test later. Brenda and janitor guy are the only two people to witness his arrival, showing support with crossed fingers and thumbs up respectively. Seeing tiny gestures of encouragement helps House steady his nerves as Wilson waits at his side by the double doors.

House nods 'ready' and Wilson swings one open.

"House! You're walking!" Cuddy is floored by the surprise, glued to the spot.

"Sort of." He replies humbly, momentarily taken aback by her sudden, rushed approach.

She embraces him warmly, hands rubbing back, unwittingly offsetting his near-miss loss of balance. "You look great." She pulls back with a broad smile. "You look better than Riley." Her chuckle is contagious.

"I do." He replies, only then noticing a skinny man seated on the sofa at the side of her office, a tired expression on his pale face.

The man stands up slowly, stifling a groan. "Dr Riley." The hand he holds out trembles ever so lightly. "I'll be your examiner."

To Wilson's surprise, House drops one crutch to accept the arm, only to take Riley lightly by the wrist, fingers on vein and eyes closed in concentration. Leaning closer he notices a too pungent aftershave, a cover for body odor. "High blood pressure." He declares strangely reliant on such a low tech exam. "Arrhythmia?" House asks, feeling a standing posture become an effort.

"Yes." Riley sounds stunned, looks stunned.

House shuffles to the nearest guest chairs holding the crutch leant on one thigh, arms encircling the walking implement. He slinks his shoulder blades at the top rim of the chair's back and sighs silent relief, it's high back a pleasant support for recently hunched spine. "Anemia, fatigue, lethargy…" He lists. "Pain or nausea?"

"Nausea."

House nods. "General weight loss. If it were sudden you'd be admitted, not teaching. I'm thinking gradual, creeping even, over a year."

"Closer to six." Riley admits.

"That would mean a severe nutritional deficiency… Which supplements are you on?"

"Vitamin pills."

"Calcium?" House asks.

"Should I?"

"Sleeping okay?" He ignores the question.

Riley shakes his head. "Can't fall asleep. When I can get out of bed, that is."

"Neurological too." House mumbles. "Your heart problems, sleep disorders and shaking hands aren't stress related. The inexplicable nausea and low grade diarrhea are no elusive idiopathic syndrome."

Three licensed doctors stand dumbstruck by the casual certainty with which his deduction is delivered.

"Correct me if I'm wrong. You've upped the frequency of your showers and are experimenting with every possible soap and deodorant, but it isn't helping, is it?"

"How do you know that?"

"You're trying to pee through your skin." House leaves Riley speechless, the man not able or not willing to follow. "The reason you're not swollen like a balloon because the runs balance it out." The look on their faces encourages him to keep at it.

"Early stage kidney failure is also the cause of your chronic exhaustion. Anemia is caused from disrupted hemoglobin production, not lack of iron. Which is why the supplements you're probably taking are not helping. Low muscle mass and nonexistent fitness tells me you're not big on sport, which means no sunlight and no vitamin D. Lactose and gluten intolerance being common causes of irritable bowels, you're probably skipping over pastries and dairy, thinking better safe than sorry."

"I've been watching what I eat lately." Riley confirms the suspicions.

"And yet you're still wasting. Both vitamin D and calcium deficiency would mean bones of a menopause woman, except kidney failure causes-"

"Hipercalcemia." The man finally joins the differential. "So my kidney and bowel symptoms cancel each other out. What causes the kidneys and bowels?"

"Same thing that causes the shaking and the weakness in limbs. Particularly wrist." House throws a glance at the man's right hand.

"Radial nerve palsy." Riley connects the dots. "Lead poisoning. … But how."

"Plumping, pigment, porcelain." House lists. "Check your tap water, change the plates, move -"

Riley silences him with an energetic shake of head. "No one in the family is sick."

"Other staff?" House asks Cuddy.

"None."

House rubs his brow. "Something personal... Do you hunt, fish, paint?"

"I used to shoot hoops, now I can barely golf."

House frowns, each second passing without an alternative making him doubt his abilities that much more.

"Except…" Riley speaks, all eyes on him, all ears attentive. "My daughter takes an earthenware crafting class. My mug is one of the first things she made."

"Six years ago."

"Seven come April." Riley confirms.

"Cheap class, resources provided?" House risks a guess.

"How'd you know?"

"Only way to get them cheap is to import them an bulk form some Asian country with zero health standards." He explains. "Support local economy, get yourself an American made mug. You may not get your money's worth but you'll get your health's worth. And report the school for poisoning their pupils."

"Mr House." Riley begins solemnly. "You have accomplished excellent marks in physical exam, acquiring anamnesis, deduction and inference, symptom, cause and treatment knowledge base, and general differential diagnosis skills. You have successfully passed the exam and earned the title of Medical Doctor. Your readmission in the medical board is pending. By next year you will have full license to practice medicine." He turns to the dean. "Dr Cuddy, consider this my notice of resignation. Goodbye doctors." The man excuses himself.

"Dr Riley!" She rushes after him.

"Lisa, I teach diagnostics and I mistook symptoms for side effects for years. He comes back from total emotional breakdown, gives me one good look and put's it all together. I can't be head of diagnostics. Not with him around." Doors shut behind him with finality.

Cuddy stands with her nose inches from the glass. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in a job?" She turns to House.

He looks at her blindsided, the thought never crossing his mind. "I only wanted the title back."

"That's not entirely true." Wilson corrects gently, seating himself on the chair next to Greg's. "You're giving consults already. As a _student_. And experienced, healthy, licensed physicians _listen._"

"No harm offering ideas."

"You would think so. House, you're… House. Famous genius. You can sprout nonsense and people would buy it. "

House makes eye contact. "That's what I'm afraid of."

"Another Thompson." Wilson follows.

"Disclaimers." Cuddy cuts in. "We make you the court of last resort to people without absolutely nothing left to lose. Every patient coming in explicitly denounces the right to sue for doctor's error."

He shakes his head vehemently, the whole of his back starting to tingle and burn. "No. No lawyer talk. No contracts."

"House-"

"Just… don't."

Cuddy sighs. "Would you consent to a verbal agreement?" She offers middle ground.

"Lisa…" He whines, her offer a torment of false hope and lurking fear. "Drop it."

"Teaching." Wilson bursts, glancing between House and Cuddy before focusing on her. "Move Chase and Foreman back to diagnostics as attendings with their own cases, formalize what they've already been doing. Then hire him…" He thumbs at House. "…as emeritus or something, for consults only. And no patient ever knows."

"And he can get away with not having patients because this is a teaching hospital." Cuddy smiles, voice enthusiastic. "We get your ideas and you get exempt from responsibility." She beams at House. "Win-win all around."

He frowns, deep in thought. "I have several conditions."

"Shoot."

"First off: working hours - two a day. At best I'll manage four, at worst none at all. Clarence will call you when that happens, though you'll pretty much tell in advance from the weather forecast. Sliding hours and telecommuting to be expected. "

"That can be arranged. … I'm guessing there's more."

"Parking spot in the garage, right by the elevator."

"Done."

"An enlarged diagnostics to fit additional staff. At least two more rooms besides Chase's and Foreman's: one for differentials and one office for me, next to theirs and Wilson's. With real walls and doors. No glass. And a private toilet. No way I can stand in a stall, strangers around or not."

"Okay. It'll take some time to adapt the place. You'll be telecommuting until its ready."

"Call that my trial period then." He nods. "Next, I want a full salary."

She smirks bemused. "Only you can want more money-"

"Wilson, the draft."

The oncologists takes a manila envelope from his blazer and hands it to the confused dean. Cuddy opens the letter, lips mouthing silent words from the page: "…donating the following:" She reads aloud. "Fifty million dollars for constructing and equipping a medical research institution for basic study of pain mechanisms and immune system, to be built off campus, on the location marked on map in appendix, but remain under PPTH. Fifty million dollars for the financing of the studies themselves, expendables and staff salaries, for the purpose of five studies a year for the next twenty year – House that's a hundred studies-"

He nods."Go on."

"One study per field: pain management, aids, cancer, autoimmune disease and drug resistant bacteria, to be changed when a satisfying solution has been discovered." She concludes in a fading tone.

"Now you see why I need the money?"He smirks.

"Don't worry." Wilson dismisses Cuddy's reluctant posture. "He's kept enough shares to get a six figure return each year."

"Which I'm ready to donate for clinic supplies if you reciprocate with a generous salary." House places the cherry on top.

Cuddy sticks a hand out. "Deal."


	49. Silent Night

**Silent Night**

Bony fingers fumble with the snap button of a cuff on the bleached denim shirt, the one House was told compliments his eyes. The new lobby mirror, long enough to cover both sitting and standing reflections, reveals a man filling his clothes in pleasant apearance. If not for the snow white hair and wrinkles he'd almost look attractive dressed this sharp, and comforts himself with the fact that age takes less from men than women. Maybe that's why Stacy started creeping though the bases lately.

He shudders through a nervous sigh, irate at himself, at the way mere thought of intimacy makes him edgy like a teenage virgin girl. Two times in as many weeks the attempt failed miserably, and now, facing the third, he feels it a make or break experience, the one to break the thick ice of his fears or hammer the point home that he has forever lost yet another of life's little joys. _'Bitch' _They called him, '_whore'_, that and a whole lot other decidedly un-masculine terms, and here he is, supposedly a free man, his mind proving them right.

Cujo stands abruptly from his corner cot, snapping him out of defeatist thoughts, than walks with calm to the door in announcement of a friendly visitor. No more than five seconds later, the doorbell buzzes. Time has come for an Oscar worthy performance in the best fake-it-till-you-make-it style.

Taking the crutches House makes a half step to the door before leaning one at the side table to open with a smirk plastered to his face, blue eyes genuinely glad to see the dark woman. "Hello, Stacy."

Scarf over exposed cleavage, she stands tiptoe to graze a kiss on his cheek, providing a rousing glance of sumptuous twins, gift box ignored. He is more than glad to find reflexes responding properly to secondary reproductive characteristics. So far so good.

"Merry Yule tide, House." She whispers mere inches from House, making him wonder if there was a hint of seductive to it or if it was just his imagination.

"Merry not-quite-Christmas." House returns just as low and deep-voiced, a little guilty of having to rush the celebration, not because of his unimportant skepticism but a coming storm front. He collects the other crutch and swings around the good foot, her path clear. "Come in."

The two step-hop to the sofa in stride, arms entwined as Stacy provides covert support, as much moral as it is physical. Subtle snapping and smoke welcomes them from the fireplace, amber warmth outlining furniture of the darkened room. Only when they are safely on the sofa, his hands free, do their eyes seek and find the shiny gift-wrapped box.

He forgoes attempts at hiding the clumsiness of his hands, made worse by nerves, and just tears the red and green paper to shreds. The gray cardboard box, small and rough, holds a small wooden plaque reading 'Gregory House, MD' in shiny metallic letters.

"Name plaque." He smirks pleased.

"Fitting hospital décor." She points out.

"Just what I need." He rubs her nose to nose.

Stacy shies away with a surprised, chucking "What was that?"

"Eskimo kiss." He explains innocently while fishing a greeting card from between mugs of creamy eggnog. "Your turn."

Stacy takes the offering of glossy blue paper sprinkled with random bursts of something vaguely silver and neither stellar nor flaky. As she opens it to read, a slip of metal drops to her quickly reacting hand, a key. The key.

Knowing that for house this is a hair's width short of marriage proposal, Stacy can only gape silently.

"You don't have to hire a decorator immediately." He quips at her tomboy taste in interior design.

Without warning she a pounces a full kiss only to have him pull away like stung, head hung. Sullied is how he feels, tainted where they touched him and in what manner, and vice versa.

"What is it?"

"Nothing." He swallows with effort a taste of runny, raw eggwhite down a paradoxically dry throat.

"House, what's wrong?"

"I... I can't." He looks away. "I just."

She pulls away confused, her lips tight. "Why not?"

"Please…" He sounds desperate to avoid the problem.

"What's the matter, it's just a kiss. We've kissed before."

"You've kissed me." He admits with a ghost of correction to his delivery. "You shouldn't - You don't know-"

"Know what? House…"

He leans back, clutching the plaque, sensing Cujo's muzzle desrcend right next to his foot.

Stacy leans into his side, arm embracing him round the waist, other hand on the near shoulder. "Tell me."

House sighs. "After the execution the prison didn't have funds to feed me." He begins innocently enough. "The guards… said I'd have to… earn my keep. After that…"

Her squeeze on the shoulder encourages.

"I wasn't just… used. Wasn't passive. Parts of me… you don't want to come near."

Her hand is soft on his jaw, guiding it up so they can make eye contact. The pity he sees on her face only makes things worse, but she's clever enough to notice his fret and turns to pragmatic, determined to prove exactly what she thinks of his condition and value. Her hands cup his face, bony to bony, lifting it up again only to have him perpetuate avoidance by closing eyes. She moves her fingers lightly from ear to chin in an arch over his cheek bones, polished nails grazing lips.

"Don't…" He groans without much protest.

"Shhh…" The sound comes from closer than assumed, dangerously close.

Full lips carefully capture dry ones, their touch so gentle and persistent in its non invasive attention it melts through his reserved self disdain, his mouth opening to it, returning the affectionate gesture. Running out of air they pull apart only slightly, two pairs of smoky eyes locked together.

"There isn't an inch of you I don't want right next to me." She whispers intently.

Inside of him, a wall starts to crumble. "Come here." He pulls her closer for a straddle, guides her hands round shoulders broadened by limping. Flat palms glide up her sides as he thumbs an imaginary tickle line between armpits and loins, sketching her form behind closed lids. Necking Eskimo style, his breath is a warm caress over exposed skin, in stark contrast to sharp stubble.

Arching in a content sigh she mindlessly reaches up for his nape. Fingers wander the jungle of his curly hair, becoming thick and meaty as they pull him closer, their grip forcefully tight.

He startles wide-eyed from the haunting flashback, a pant exploding to force it at arm's length. _Not real. _He tells himself repeatedly as breathing settles. To her he says just a short "Don't move." later on.

Stacy nods, hands back on his shoulders, her worry poorly hidden.

_Stay here. Stay in the present. _House insists, double-checking that his back and rear are tucked safely between sofa cushions, out of sight and reach respectively.

_Eyes open._

With both hands he works though the buttons of her shirt one at a time. There's an odd kind of lost focus in his eyes, remarkably half glazed and crystal clear at the same time, as he studies her steadily revealing supple form with fingertips calloused from crutches, a counterpoint of skin. For the first time he takes it slow, retracing once well known paths, reveling in every sensation her presence supplies as he eats her up with eyes and hands.

Musicians hands strum guitar like curves, her every fiber atremble under his skilled touch. He coaxes from her a flattering melody of instinctive sounds which resonate with his own emotions. With confidence restored he feels a gradual swell of heat, blood slowly pooling down low, dizzy from success. He holds back uncertain, for now satisfied with knowing he can still please her. Only on her repeated and almost desperate asking does he allow her to release the hold o his forearms. Few seconds later a muscular front developed by daily drills is exposed to evening cool, and he pulls them together in a skintight embrace. He sighs blissful elation, quiver of excitement building to twitchy jerks under her steadily crescendoing sway, the intoxicating smell of her making him high. They breathe rough from the mad pace of their rhythmic dance, a melody made flesh. He feels her damp heat clutch, claw and clench all over him. Downpour of bliss floods mind and body, melting away every last trace of pain and leaving him comfortably exhausted, she slumped in his arms equally satisfied.

Fire gone out, the air is a chill against hot bodies, silence finding them serenely satisfied, and he welcomes it gladly, its tingle keeping him from slipping into a dream and missing out on the brief window of painlessness.

The moment is long but does not last, and when it's over he speaks up frankly. "Sleep with me."

Stacy sits up straight and frowns confusion at the suggestion.

"Just sleep."

Understanding, she smiles ruefully. "You trust me not to take your other leg?"

The quip has an unintended result of making him actually wonder, but very briefly. "I think I just did."

Stacy nods and cleans the mess with a kitchen cloth waiting on the coffee table next to forgotten treats. Their trek down the short hall is slow with tiredness but not yet hurt. Cujo silently follows after them at a safe distance and lies down behind the footboard, close by but out of sight, his understanding almost uncanny.

Lying under a mountain of covers in their birthday suits alone, the two spoon, House snuggling unusualy close to Stacy in his nightly need of body warmth and security from close company. Like a kid afraid to be left alone in the dark he holds her tight as one would a teddy bear, and hopes she will take it as standard male possessiveness. Or, if she sees through appearance deceptively similar to such common gesture all the way to his uncertainty, at least find it endearing.

As if in answer, Stacy entwines their fingers, wishing him "Sweet dreams" some time later.

His sole reply is a light snore.


	50. Guardian Angel

**Guardian Angel**

Languid stroke of hand over bare chest erases the blossoming cherry garden from his mind, anchoring him firmly to the reality in which he lies nude, helpless on his back and half covered by a more insulated body. Hard-wired memory of overwhelmingly negative experiences from last few years throws an alarm switch in his mind, rushing heart rate and labored breathing battling a deafening duel in prosthetic ears. Thin film of chilling sweat bathes a body tense with painful tremors. The other person lifts from him unexpectedly, giving a moment of opportunity to a message shot from deep within his subconscious, spoken in Milton's voice.

_Fight back._

When the hand returns across the chest to pin him down at the opposite shoulder, his other arm lashes out with feral violence.

"GET OFF ME!!!" He shouts, heedless to the pain in striking palm. Fury is the new fuel behind his tension, hands fisted ready at his sides. "Touch me an' I'll kill you!!!"

Nostrils flare a bull's rage, hot breath puffed in and out. In his mind's eye he stands tall and proud on healthy runner's legs, shoulders squared. Growing younger, stronger and more whole by the second, he is quickly as powerful as in the peak of lacrosse days, fearlessly facing off an unseen enemy that cowers hidden in the thick darkness. Right now, the throbbing in his limbs is not pain but life.

Except it's only an endorphin high, trickling away till he's marooned on the twin reefs of exhaustion and ache. Only then does Wilson's voice reach him through light-sucking fog, pulling him back like a fish tangled up in a net. Reality crashes back, landing him in a tired, broken body laid on its back, vulnerably exposed to elements and aggression.

"Come on, House, wake up." The man half-demands, half-pleads, voice close by and at ear level.

The presence is comforting for about three seconds, until memory and senses provide a humiliating realization – that he is butt naked in the presence of both his friend and lover, and oh god, that must have been her he struck. He winces, wanting nothing more than to curl under a blanket and die of shame, except the covers got flung out of reach in the strugle. Getting them back would mean rolling over, which would display the beauty of scarred and morbidly scrawled back, than on top of that the show of him crawling on three limbs like some circus freak.

"Leave me alone." He squeezes out, eyes shut tight in childish denial of the situation.

Wilson rises with the squeal of shoes on floor and popping of aging kneecaps, sheet rustling at Greg's feet.

"Leave it." He whispers curtly. "Just go. Both of you. Leave me alone."

Two pairs of feet pat away, followed by a clack of shutting door. It takes him five whole minutes just to switch head and toes, untangle the flimsy sheet and wrap himself up in it, shivering from cold dampness. Traces of tepid wetness on cheeks join the one over his upper lip and forehead just in time for a gentle knocking.

"Go away."Voice broken from shouting and first tears mumbles softly into a linen wrapped arm.

Squeal of hinges goes against his wishes.

"I said go away." He repeats, more dejected than angry.

"I saw Wilson out." Stacy informs as she tiptoes barefoot across the wool rug. "Can I join you?"

He wants to say _'Yes'_ but fears it would sound pathetic. He wants to say _'No' _except his voice would be a dead giveaway of his state and that would be pathetic too. He's torn between feeling abandoned and invaded and sort of wishes Cujo would just plop down over him like he was some lost skier, all two hundred pounds of bone-crushing furry warmth. But the dog apparently deferred to a human proven trustworthy and she has no more clue on what to do now than House.

Curled up in fetal pose with his sensitive front to the footboard, House feels the mattress give behind him, somewhere at the edge of his bed. The crater moves towards the center and closer, until it's just behind his back. Soft arm reaches over him, blanket folds slipping past him like some massive curtain before fluttering lightly across his chilled body and further back over hers. Under a shared cover Stacy sneaks one hand to his, fisted round a ball of linen, only to have him pull it under his armpit, refusing to relinquish the puny bit of cover.

Not discouraged, she scoots up closer, and he's vaguely aware of rougher cloth being pressed between them, a male shirt.

"Come here."

Her arm reaches around him, lining up with his in imitation of last night's cuddle. Other one slips under his curved neck to wrap round chest, pulling him over. One bare leg covers his, thigh to thigh, foot falling over his tangled calves, now sandwiched between her own. She plants a light kiss at his nape before resting her cheek over the spot. They're so close he can feel her heart beating on his spine, chest pressing up to broad back.

"Sorry." He mumbles.

"Forget it." Her words reverberate through his chest. "I was warned on time."

He is silent for a long while, torn between the bliss of ignorance and a need to know, or rather the want of having his hopes confirmed. Even so, he doesn't dare hope it might be love. The one time he used the word she had his thigh carved up. Now, he's in no condition for a rerun. And yet, despite fear of disappointment, he asks it.

"Why do you like me?"

At first she is so silent he considers scoring one for the self-deprecating side, but when she answers, it vindicates the nervous wait. "I never stopped."

"Even when- ? …you know."

"Oh I was frustrated at what I though you were doing and I grieved for what became of you. but I couldn't stop liking you. Not even when I was with Mark."

"Did you like him?"

"He was… plan B."

He wants so much to believe it, believe she really does like him, for whatever insane reason, but can't deny the worm of doubt undermining his mood. Before he can allow himself the luxury of that belief, he needs more proof. "I've changed." He pushes back still, sounding as if he accepted solitude but hoping that she'll brush the argument away effortlessly.

"And I haven't?" She meets his hopes and then snuggles up to him.

Reassured, he calms just enough to relax in her embrace. As soon as he lets go of doubt, the simple gesture of being held makes his head swim with intoxicating fog of contentment. It's remarkable how so small a thing communicates such a wellspring of blessings: of being wanted and accepted, supported, protected and cared for, encouraged and comforted… valued.

Even if he can't yet see what's so valuable about him, the knowledge that he is valued and therefore won't be harmed, enables him to find trust enough to show the most vulnerable of sides, his need of certain others. Slowly, nervously, he releases the death grip on drenched sheet in silent, tacit permission of its removal.

Not moving her hand much, she pries one corner of it from between his chest and arm, peeling fabric form goose bumped skin. Under the blanket's shade it's almost impossible to make out individual letters of the damning tattoo, but lashing marks are an obvious relief across his curved back.

Instead of suspected tracing of scars, her delicate finger outlines underlying anatomy with surgical precision, moving from the pit of nape over high deltoid, down the groove halving his triceps and back up to where arm meets torso. From there it follows the twisting seam of large dorsal muscle, all the way to the small of back, returning through the midline groove over undulating vertebra of an arched spine.

If there is a gesture more symbolic of seeing past the ugly surface to an inner worth, he can't think of it.

She follows the blade of scapula to the start of ribs her fingers easily slip between. When her lips begin filling outlined area with soft pecks, they do so blind to its glaring texture and pigmentation, moving seamlessly over patches of scarred, scrawled and spotless skin.

When she's done kissing, fingertips stroking lightly along the muscle fibers, Stacy rests her head between his shoulder blades. "Why haven't you removed it yet?" She asks in a kind of off-handed wondering aloud.

He sighs wearily, not wanting to talk about it. But he knows she'll press it, and even if he gets away this time, it's only a matter of time before it surfaces again. "It's a reminder."

"You want to be reminded of that?"

"It's not like I can forget. And believe me, I've tried."

"I know, but, don't you think it would be easier without it?"

"He still owns me." House sounds defeated.

"What?"

"Read it."

The blanket lifts just enough for sunlight to fall cool over his back. Her fingers brush a multitude of long horizontal strokes over him, and he reads the first clauses from memory until the touch stills at the suspected phrase.

"Good god…" She whispers. "It's a caretaking contract."

"My copy." He confirms.

"Thompson took responsibility for you? Because of the leg!?" Stumped, Stacy blabbers on. "… and control over all your things… and you gave up right to terminate it, no matter what he does."

House snorts a burst of half-hysterical laughter. "That's not the worst part."

"What do you mean?"

"Check the last clause." He urges against himself.

"_The penance is to continue as long as the below signed is alive. In the event that the Client becomes for any reason unable to continue arranging the penance of the below signed, the responsibility passes to the Client's current legal representative…_" Her voice fades to disbelief.

"Paper version wasn't in the manor." He explains. "He's got it."

"And you think-?"

"It's by the book, isn't it?" He asks, sort of, with all the time he spent thinking about it, he's got a pretty good guess at her answer. "I mean if you take the rules literately. There's nothing in there that would make it... I dunno... not be valid."

Her silence is reply enough.

He sighs. "Figures."

"Well if it were secret, that means no one affirmed it." She suggests an overriding flaw.

"There are two copies." He counters bitterly. "And he made sure I can't 'conveniently misplace' mine. Plus there were henchmen."

"…witnesses…" She follows, ever more depressed for him. "Full verbal."

She pulls over tighter still, as if trying to blend with him. "That's why you refused Wilson. You really _couldn't_ have him as caretaker. Legally. At least not... And you gave the settlement away."

He nods. "You know now why it's so hard to go back to work?" House seeks understanding in a rather rhetorical question. "Its just, who am I kidding…" He huffs, fighting the fog in red-hot eyes. "It's a fuckin' house of cards." Fist slams soft mattress.

"House…" She pulls it back against his abdomen, kneading a soft, soothing massage. "It means nothing, it might as well be The Hobbit. In Klingon. Written with Mayan glyphs. Spirit of the law beats letter of the law. Every. Time."

"I know!" He yells, exasperated from frustration, his voice breaking.

"Then why?"

"I could erase it tomorrow, wouldn't mean a thing unless he's behind bars." Voice is barely audible scraping.

"Well…" She pops her chin on his triceps, curiously looking at the back side of his face."Thompson's business is leveled right?"

He frowns a frustrated lack of understanding, throwing a 'So?' look her way.

"So the way I see it, he's lost all connections." She says with a hint of I-know-something-you-don't to it. "He can't do anything to you through someone else. So as long as he's not in the states, you're safe. And if he ever comes back, he'll end up in jail. And if he's dumb enough to go after you, he'll run into Cujo. Or Clarence. Or both."

"Stacy…" House is suddenly insecure.

"Hmm?"

He sneaks his fingers between hers, injuries be damned, and grips tightly.

Stacy squeezes back carefully. "I love you too."


	51. Erase the Past

**Erase the Past**

"Only you can hire a demolition and fireworks company on new years to bring down an old warehouse." Stacy opens the passenger's door to nighttime chill. "And why did come here now?" She spreads open the wheelchair.

"You'll see." He replies quizzically while changing seats, glad he's slept through most of the day just to be alert for this. Pastiche quilt is added to the insulating wrapping of coat, gloves, scarf and hat. "Help me down."

Stacy keeps hold of the handles while he maneuvers down a slight slope, her hold an insurance against a tumbling drop over half frozen dirt.

The building alight with reflectors is a block of eerie white paint, cracked with age and flaking from strands of branching, cancerous rust. A row of dirty windows encircles its topmost edge, the majority of which are in various stages of shattering.

As they descend closer, a tall woman of carrot-colored hair jogs over, assertive face lacking spotted skin of a natural Celt.

"I'm sorry, but the charges are set." She informs. "No one goes under a hundred yards."

"Than the deal is off." He states bluntly, first time he's stood up to a stranger, man or woman.

"Safety first." The woman insists.

He snorts at the statement. "Not by a mile. … Your' job is to tear it down at midnight. The clock is ticking and I'm not moving."

"House…." Stacy tries to reason.

"I'm not." He stands his ground, and the strangeness of his action makes things crystal clear for Stacy.

"He isn't. Trust me."

The contractor bites her lip. "OSHA's gonna kill me if they find out." She takes her screaming-yellow helmet off and stuffs it on his head. "Ricky, give her yours!"

An impressive Latino strides up and hands over his helmet.

"You're doing this of your own insistence. If anything happens, it ain't on me. You've got five minutes. Not a second more. Understand."

He gives a curt nod but savors the milestone, victory a morsel of satisfaction to his forgotten esteem.

A cry of rusted hinges echoes in its depths like a hundred ghosts forever trapped here, in a timeless, unchanging stillness.

"Wait here." House whispers, voice rasping with emotion. He wheels forth alone, creeping along the asphalt as both women watch on, and stops on the edge of a dark stain, fading out from the center in a myriad overlapping blotches. Directly above it a steel chain with big rings hangs from a strutted beam, encased still in a sticky mass of knotted spider webs.

His wrists hurt just from looking at it, shoulders recalling the strain of free hanging weight. Nonexistent odor irritates his nostrils, smelling of metal, acid and decay. Events over five years old fade in like ghostly projections, as if he is watching a recording of himself being forced to accept the deal.

It's odd, seeing himself hide a smile while hanging naked from the ceiling, sudden sharp pain of cane in plexus therapeutic in contrast to chronic throbbing. Not only has he agreed to something he can endure, but also something that might bring regular relief. Of course, the lawyer wasn't a blind idiot, and noticing his smug, superior smile made him all the more vile.

_I'm the one who gets to enjoy this, Greg. _The lawyer's lips oozed poison to his ear. _Not you._

Base of cane slides threateningly over his thigh, but instead of the expected slam House braced himself for, the tip passes the back of his knee and rises up the inseam. Repetitive slide of smooth surface on sensitive skin freaks him out. His mind goes frantic from undesired pleasure, fighting the dizziness from a brain bereft of blood.

He doesn't plead because he refuses to process the sensations, neither does he writhe or thrash or kick when impaled on searing cold. His body reacts with a reflex surge of tears but his heart isn't in it, for it is already withdrawing into denial, impassively watching himself from outside himself.

The limp body is eventually dropped to the cold, hard ground, warned not to rouse suspicion by skipping work tomorrow.

At that he closes his eyes warily, and the images fade to black. Whatever solace he hoped to find here remains elusive, pain worsened by flashback-born stress is the only effect of this visit.

"I'm done." House mutters, spinning round but not facing them. "Tear it down." He adds in passing while returning the helmet, Stacy bracing to drive him out.

Above, the sky is granite black, sprinkled with a scattering of stars. From the seaward horizon, a tide of clouds is rolling in, edges lit from below by the township's wasted light.

At the stroke of midnight a cacophony of fireworks begins, drowned out by the bangs of explosives shattering the warehouse's support beams. The building collapses in a heap of metallic sheets, loud noise only thing distinguishing it from a toppling house of cards.

Cold wind sneaks through layers of clothing, an army of miniature lancers charging down his limbs. Big snowflakes drift in from afar, each gust a thin veil falling over the wreckage, layer after white layer.

"Ready?" Stacy asks as the demolition team starts packing up.

"Just a minute." He replies.

So she waits a minute, and another, and an hour passes in waiting before she accepts that they're not going anywhere anytime soon.

House doesn't mind the chill, he's too mesmerized by the snow, and the fact it's just one more reason to stay, frostbites be damned.

At dawns first light, navy blue behind pitch black conifers, a two inch blanket of pristine snow covers what once was a torture chamber to countless mob victims. In silence, he can feel the spirits finally rest free, their jail gone. The empty field caries a mood of innocence and clean starts, a benediction for the planed research labs from heaven itself.

"Let's go."


	52. Darkest Before Dawn

**Darkest Before Dawn**

He hates winter. Hates the storms and the chill and the entrapment they cause. But more than those he hates the unstable weather, an endless string of changing air pressure that holds his skeleton in a week long grinding grip. It's worse than the agony of a sudden blizzard from which he can escape with a brief excursion into induced unconsciousness. This is barely tolerable pain and her twin companions: nausea and insomnia, molesting him for days on end.

Somewhere outside a sudden blast of wind appears, howling down the street. He groans loudly, writing from intangible onslaught, but moving around only worsens things.

He's too nauseous to eat, too hungry to sleep and too tired to suppress pain. The spiral spins its mad descent to misery, leaving him so sick of being sick and so tired of being tired. Self control scraped away by merciless weather and ineffective medication, he breaks into pitiful whines and whimpers, wordlessly begging for relief and rest.

Ribs protest the crying bout he can no longer rein in, and nausea redoubles in response. He feels bile rise and tries his best to keep from barfing on empty, again, but attempts at deep breaths fail utterly. Acid bile erupts to his mouth and he swallows it back with a thoughtless, acquired reflex, not minding the disgusting aftertaste he's so used to.

Sleep deprived and drugged, he loses touch with reality, mistaking revived pain for a new beating.

_Please no more please don't-_

Distant barking makes him freeze in terror. Arms under him and head pressed into mattress, he lies immobile on his front, not daring to breathe in the animal's presence, violent shivering his only motion.

_Oh god not the dogs please not them please…_

Consumed by misery, he fails to notice the noise of bell, key, knob and feet. Gentlest touch comes as startlingly unexpected shock, sending him scampering from the corner between headboard and night table. He curls to a ball in his little corner, legs pulled up in protection of front and face, hands stuffed safe in armpits.

"Hey…" Wilson soothes.

_Shit not again not him can't be him hallucinating again don't say anything don't give them cause stay put ignore it be quiet not real…_

Paranoid, House recoils from the feel of mattress dipping dangerously close, pushing harder to blend with the cold cell wall. Something warm and wet touches his toes, curling away on reflex.

_Oh god oh god oh god…_

A soft quilt with a textured sewing pattern descends upon him lightly, his mind stuck in a moment of incomprehension.

"Relax." He hears Wilson again, but an arm sneaks round his shoulders, pulling his tense body from the corner's partial shelter.

_No no no no no no…_

"It's okay." It pulls him against a torso but doesn't hold him immobilized, stroking spidery limbs instead. "You're safe."

_Dream jimmy _Houseconcludes. It's the only explanation he can accept in such state of mind._ Good dream jimmy safe. Dream jimmy takes care of House. _He calms quickly, going slack in the young man's arms, but the usual respite from pain is confusingly absent.

"It hurts." House complains, surprised to hear himself speak.

"I know." Wilson sympathizes. "Nightmare?"

House frowns. This is not how jimmy dreams are supposed to go. He opens his eyes slowly, uncertain if he'll see anything. A dog's concerned face looks back and he flinches them shut, panting madly until memory brings recognition of his protector pet.

"I'm not- dreaming?" He utters, totally lost.

"Would he be here if you were?" Wilson asks to aid his orientation.

"No..." House mumbles, peeling from a pajama-clad Wilson and immediately regretting the motion. He might be out of the dungeon but the pain and exhaustion are still here. "I can't take it anymore. I'm so tired. I want to sleep. Put me under."

"I already did last night. Unconsciousness isn't a good substitute for sleep."

"It is for pain." His eyes plead. "Morphine isn't working. It's messing with my head."

Wilson brushes his messy brown hair. "I'll be right back." He stands up suddenly.

"Wait!" House bolts upright, wincing from the shift.

He stops.

Fear joins agony on Greg's face. "What if I-"

"You won't." Wilson assures. "I'll be back before you know it."

The certainty of his words rubs off on House, who lies down in the pillows, apprehensive but holding on. He waits patiently, counting his breaths wile scratching Cujo behind the ear, anything to stay in the present. Wilson returns not a moment too soon, carrying a small plastic box in one and stool in the other.

"Whatcha got?" House nods at the pack.

"Epidural." Wilson explains as he loads a measured dose into a slender syringe. "Bennett gave it to me as backup, after the mother of all storms. Now roll over."

"I think you mistook me for Cujo."

"Yes." Sarcasam oozes. "Now be a good dog and let me see your spine."

House flinches from the words but hides it by turning away, trying and failing to lift his pajama shirt.

"Arms around knees." Wilson directs, surprisingly tugging down at his collar.

House frowns. "What are-?"

Iodine tincture is swiped over Greg's neck in self-explanatory gesture.

"Oh."

Lightly cradling Greg's nape, Wilson guides his head front and down, thumb stroking through wild tuffs in a soothing manner. "Breathe all the way out..." Words are stretched out indicatively.

Just as House is left out of air, the needle plunges steadily, and he hisses inwardly from the sharp stab. He sighs as the substance is injected; holding his breath till the needle is all the way out.

"Wilson?"

"Hm?" Wilson places a small, thoroughly sealed bandage over the injection spot to safeguard against infections.

House makes out the second vial in the pack, illegible label different from the first one. "What's the other one for?"

"Antagonist and stimulant." Wilson pulls the stool up.

"In case you OD-ed me? Nice- Oh…" Surge of chemicals is a near instant salve to the ache and he groans with blissful relief, strained nerves marinating in analgesics. "Mmm."

"Working?"

"Oh yeah." He smiles like an idiot. "Ow."

Wilson tenses. "What is it?"

"Face..." House rubs a dint on his jaw, barely noticeable under scruff. "Not better."

Wilson chuckles. "And here I thought it's something serious. Think you can handle it?"

The languid shrug is answer enough. "Jimmy?"

"Hm?"

"Could we make this regular? The epi, I mean."

"We'll have to check with Bennett, but yeah, I think we could."

"Good." House slurs sleepily. "Cuz I'd really hate to be stoned at work."

"Now that's a new one." Wilson sniggers, ambling away. "I'll be on the sofa. Cujo will sound the alarm if your vitals drop."

"Kay…"

"Good night, House." Darkness deepens with a click of lights.

"Jimmy?"

"Night, House." Wilson raises his voice just so, and it's a tone of measured insistence House knows well, one cautious not to frighten.

He isn't deterred by so feeble a threat. Not for what he has to say. "Thanks."

"Right back at you." Wilson's voice catches.

"G'night."


	53. Different Diagnosis

**Different Diagnosis**

"There…" Stacy heaves, doping the last file-loaded box in House's living room, among it's numerous cousins which cover every available surface. "That all you need?"

House, comfortably settled in the overstuffed recliner, nods without looking up from a file in his lap, the irony wasted on a mind so focused. Trough glasses the size of twin beer-bottle bottoms, he studies the cases that ran through diagnostics in his absence, as preparation for his return to work. Occasionally he dots down an unforeseen development in a thick notepad. The letters of his cryptic script are large and simple, easily distinguished by poorest eyes, their shapes not without order.

"Interesting?" Stacy leans over his shoulder, slender hands sneaking down his chest.

"M-hm."

She pecks him on the rough cheek before slipping away. "I'll fix us dinner."

House nods absent mindedly.

Concluding a case of leprosy, he reaches for the stack on the coffee table in search of a new puzzle. The name on the file is Joseph Arnello, and hits him hard, a breath-robbing punch in the gut.

Suddenly he is nauseous, his head spinning like some off-center merry go round. He makes no move or sound in the vulnerably disoriented state, staring an inch higher at the soothing blue color of the file. Forcing composure with a breathing exercise, he is surprised to discover curiosity waiting on the other side of panic.

Gnarled hand opens the file slowly on its last page, anxious to find out how it went. Eyes seek out the final note and he wonders if pleasure is an acceptable response to terminal progression. Strangely reassured by the fact, he returns to the beginning, checking up initial symptoms, and is instantly rewarded with an out-of-the-blue coma.

He continues intrigued, reading up an investigation into the cause of the man's liver failure.

_Vicodin?_ Supplies the cynical part, the one that remembers smuggling operations from prison days. He is reminded of Clarence's retelling of events leading to their mutual release, and the bit of data regarding mob assassinations. Now he is morbidly curious to a fault, wanting to know what vile method the vengeful Thompson used against Arnello.

It isn't long before the nephrologist in him is hooked by elevated level of orotic acid in the humble urine sample, and thrown on a byway his fellows eventually noticed, briefly looked over and rejected when the obvious enzyme came back ok. Being a little more experienced, he thinks of an uncommon, indirect cause for it, and finds confirmation in the detailed history – high protein diet prior to admission.

He finds it karmic irony that terrible mutations run in mafia families, grinning slightly to himself.

But if Thomson didn't kill Joseph Arnello, maybe Robert Arnello didn't return the favor either. After all, that particular suspicion had least support in evidence. Not that the last investigated alternative, a random carjacker accident, made much sense. Goes to show how desperate Maria and her colleagues were before the case was placed on hold, to his simultaneous relief and dismay.

Closing the medical file, House brings the facts of the criminal case to mind. Lengthy deliberation ends up in the same void of evidence he ran into last time, the murderer's trail vanishing just like the lawy-

The revelation is mind-blowing like those koan's he toyed with in Japan, explanation so elegant it _**must**_ be true.

He fumbles for the slim cell phone in the chest pocket of his shirt, scrolling for a number he never used and never thought he would. Yet here he is, listening to the droll of the ring-back tone, waiting for the fed to pick up.

"Agent Miles here." The man answers professionally.

"It's House." Comes the raspy whisper of a reply, rambling on before the man can say anything in return. "I know who did it."

"I'm sorry, I-"

"Thompson." He spills, impatience grating on high strung nerves. "The killer and the lawyer are the same person." House is so excited it's almost enthusiastic. "You pull me out, arrest the guards, ringleader contacts the lawyer looking for help. Except the lawyer has no intention of saving anyone's skin but his own, not even Thompson's. So he calls the man saying there's a problem, arranging a meeting with no witnesses. Thompson kills the parking camera…"

"And the lawyer kills Thompson." Miles's disappointed sigh shoots House's mood. "Thanks."

House gulps. "What's wrong?"

"He's still out of our jurisdiction." Reminds Miles.

He shuts the phone without goodbye.

"What is it?" Stacy asks, drawn by what seemed a one-sided conversation.

House flings the device violently. Shoulder screams in protest of the thoughtless move and a split second later he howls along, cradling the injured joint. Explosive agony quickly bubbles down to bearable pulsing pain, but keeps shooting new surges at the slightest move. It's like being hung all over again, the shock of arms being twisted out of sockets, than overstretched tendons tearing from weight of a body thrashing in agony.

He keels half way only to arch back out of breath, eyes red-hot searing, while the tears and the howls just keep coming. Suddenly there's something grainy and very cold covering his shoulder, a heap of solid balls in dewy foil, its numbing cold a grace.

"Easy there, easy." Stacy speaks soothingly, stroke of hand through messy hair keeping him from slipping to a flashback. "Better?"

Wheezy huffs replace howls of agony. "Not … fair."

"What's wrong?"

"They can't catch him." He whines. "They'll never catch him. I'll never -."

"No." She argues. "You'll be fine. No one will hurt you. I won't let it happen."

House looks up so uncertain, his voice so hopeful. "Promise?"

Her nod is solemn. "I promise."

He leans back into her embrace, sighing dejected. "…'s not fair…"


	54. Loneliness of Spirit

**Loneliness of Spirit**

Completing the morning itinerary under Clarence's watch, House hobbles into the living room and pauses at the sight of a small bonsai tree smack in the idle of the mantelpiece.

"Hashimoto?" He asks.

"Christmas present." Cujo affirms. "Came by mail. Little late but…"

It's a beautiful miniature of a white pine, growing almost directly out of a rock, oddly bent branches spread in an asymmetric umbrella fashion.

Bee-lining at it, he opens the little greeting card next to it, and finds inside three lines of kanji script:

"_The bonsai appeal-"_

House whispers as he sits back in his favorite spot - the curvy recliner backed by bookcases, soft down tucked safe in a corner, with unobstructed view of the room, door and both windows to the street.

_Appreciate endurance  
Not ideal shape_

Leaning back into feathery fluff, he cannot help smiling at the samurai's sentiment. Outside the colors are bright, contrasts clear-cut. The day is sunny yet chilly, so he's glad to be indoors, sock-clad feet inches from the fireplace embers, the comforter spread over his lower body. The cigar stand nearby is already waiting with his daily dose of mixed nuts and fruit shake, courtesy of Wilson, something for him to snack on should he be hungry between meals.

Cujo ambles after him, chow-stuffed bone in safe in giant, yellowish incisors. Sprawled at his masters feet, the animal begins gnawing contently, licking out the thawing treat.

House grins at the huge dog that appears to have grown wider recently. "I'll have to buy a treadmill for Cujo." He comments to Clarence. "He's mutating into a bear."

"Him and me both, doc." The man replies from the kitchen.

Bread knife clangs to house's distress but he keeps the lid on it.

"You get a treadmill, I'll be moving in." Clarence jokes. "Eatin' and burnin' my food at the same place… Not bad."

"Remind me to start charging you rent." House sniggers, but feels the laugh hollow.

Confusion creeps up from behind him. Something is amiss when, by all accounts, he should be perfectly content. On reflex he starts reviewing his situation: a full night's sleep, warmth and comfort, post-exercise endorphins, the promise of sustenance, a sense of safety… Even on the abstract plane all seems well, as he recently made tiny advancements into the professional and romantic spheres. So what could be wrong?

Between an almond and peanut he spots the answer, landing on the ledge of his tall window in a flutter of blurry brown and grey. The sparrow is still only long enough to make him gape with realization, airborne in the next moment.

He misses the birds. For a month or so the cold has kept him under house arrest with threats of shivering induced cramps, far from the live wildlife documentary of the park he has grown accustomed to. He finds it oddly amusing and even a bit worrisome, how he became dependant something so unnecessary, to the point of being disturbed by its absence.

But he is unable to share it, not the want or the fear, or even the amusement. Because in prison, speaking your mind was not the brightest idea, especially for someone who had a special arrangement with the guards. Sharing fears meant they'd come true, wants would be twisted into humiliation. Amusement? Now that deserved outright punishment. He realizes he hasn't done anything like it since release. Never asked for anything that went beyond basic needs.

"Clarence…"

The giant ambles over. "Yeah doc?"

"I think… I want a birdfeeder."

"Seriously?" Clarence chuckles, and it comes like a blow to the gut.

House shrinks, sliding lower in the recliner as he grips the comforter till his knuckles turn white.

"Oh, man… You are serious." Clarence squats before him. "Okay, I'll just go out 'n' ask Irene to get you one from the pet shop. Think you can handle that?"

"I can handle anything." He says with a borderline teary smile. "I'd rather not have to."

Clarence smiles kindly, an encouraging shoulder pat offered. "Gimme one minute."

House nods, quickly comforted by Cujo licking his hands relaxed.

Irene surprises House with her arrival, big shoe box in her arms. "What do you think of do-it-yourself, doctor?"

With utter bafflement he switches between her and Clarence.

"I've got some pine cones left over from the Christmas decorations. We could _make_ a feeder."

House swallows. It's not the making that bugs him, it's the '_we'_ part. Unlike Clarence and Wilson, who had the pleasure of changing his clothes, House has issues with having her watch his do anything resembling a dexterous job. Even though he only has to tie a string, he knows it will take him knees and elbows and teeth to accomplish so simple a task, and while it's obvious he's frail, nothing resembling retarded is an image of one's self he wants to impart.

"I can do it myself." He does his best to cover up with a little insulted assertiveness, all the while knowing his face is a dead giveaway of fear of humiliation. "Don't want to keep you from heart-shaped cutouts. Valentines will be over in no time."

"Just return whatever's left, ok?" She smiles a goodbye but it doesn't reach her eyes, which are poorly masked pity.

That is exactly the reason he avoids her, even if she is Wilson's better half. The rational part of him insists that pity would fade with a little more contact, but he can't bring himself to endure the first phase. Mercifully, she seems to understand, and leaves without ill will.

"Peanut butter…" House demands as he struggles to stand. "…and that stupid horse feed of Wilson's." He limps into the kitchen, plopping down on the little wheeled stool by the butcher block that sort of became his dining chair and table respectively.

Clarence assembles necessary items, adding a teaspoon and bowl to facilitate the stuffing.

"Thanks." House says and means it, remarkably able to express his gratitude and keep the words from becoming meaningless noise, overused and valueless.

"No sweat." Clarence leans cross-armed against the stove to watch the other man work.

Spoon by spoon, House smears the spread over a cone, than dips it in a bowl of whole grain breakfast cereal. When the feeder is loaded, Clarence takes over, tying the thing to a length of thin, gardening rope.

House can only spare a moment of eye contact to communicate his grateful relief, managing to catch Clarance's slow blink, their silent code for _'you're welcome.'_

Shortly after the cone is placed on a sill of the living room window, sting lodged between frame and wing, a blue and silver jay lands next to it, inquisitive head bobbing side to side.

House grabs Cujo's collar lightly. "Tranquilo." He whispers.

Man and bird look at one another unmoving for the longest second imaginable, a silent agreement made.

House lets go of the collar very slowly. "Silencio."

Cujo inches forward quietly, without frightening the bird, and sits on its hinds a foot from the window, watching but not moving.

Over time, more and more critters fly in to feast.

House smiles.


	55. Back to Basics

**Back to Basics**

Arms exposed to chill leave the padded plastic of the exam table, holding one another for warmth over a thin hospital gown. Digits on a digital thermostat confirms his doubt of the ambient air being eighty degrees, an ideal temperature for most people, but his lean body prefers some five degrees extra.

Foil snaps and flaps on a light screen plinking active and he turns to the side for a look despite the skewed perspective from his horizontal pose. A mosaic of CT images reveals the extent of his past injuries, each bone having not one fracture, but a fracture _area, _a lengthy visible thickening on what are supposed to be thinnest, frailest parts of bone. Squinting on closer inspection he notices they consist of countless fused fragments, a three dimensional puzzle of shards and shrapnel.

Benet's face flows through five expressions in three seconds flat, from a mild initial shock of someone who still hasn't grown jaded, over empathic pain and sadness, to a fading mix of anger and disgust. "I hope they're clueless about bones. Because if they allowed these to heal all the way on purpose… "

House decides the plain, off-white ceiling is suddenly fascinating, not wanting to contemplate the unspoken implications of that thought. A bone completely healed will strengthen, never again breaking on the _same_ spot. He knows the guards weren't that informed, but also knows they were cruel enough to willing do the same thing on purpose, had they known.

A shiver runs up his spine from fear and frost.

Benet picks up on the goose bumped skin. "Cold?"

He shrugs.

"Why don't you say so?"

House turns to the other doctor with a _'take a guess.' _expression.

The physiatrist sighs on upping the temp. "My job is making people more comfortable in their skin. You can be frank with me."

"Can I be Johnny?" He hides behind humor.

Benet chuckles as he prepares the IV, two bags, tube and a needle, than walks over to Greg's side.

Strong torso in green scrubs quickly towers over House, injection in hand, so he instinctively shies away by an inch, head shrinking into shoulders. Benet swallows with some masked emotion, a clue of nonviolent intentions. Relaxation comes difficult regardless of reason.

Being no idiot, Benet pulls up a stool. The drop in height helps immensely. "Just a slight prick."

"You know I won't feel it. Wouldn't feel anything below a stab wound."

Pair of emeralds flashes brief concern. "Methadone working?"

"'s okay." House assures. "Pain wise. Mentally it's great. Lot less freaky dreams."

"Glad to hear it." A rather fast drip frequency is set.

"So how's that supposed to work?"

"Sound-guided delivery of drugs." Benet applies ultrasound gel over is fingers. "I saturate a limb with a cocktail of pain inducers and analgesics. Awful stuff, concentrates of wasabi, peppers, onion… all that shit. And enough morphine to drown it out." He places the probe on the first fracture and turns the machine on."Then I use the ultrasound to make certain body parts more absorbing. You should feel… strange."

He does. It's an odd kind of heat, tingly, but not uncomfortable. It's really intense and he fears his fingers will start burning, with real blisters or chemically induced pain, but they don't. That's the strangest thing, stranger even than the direct sensation, intriguing, almost funny. "And this helps how?"

"I've noticed something…" Benet says off handed between fracture points. "You reported lowest pain levels directly after worst."

"Storms are usually followed by stable weather." House explains.

"Yes but same weather before and after wasn't equally easy time. Each time your pain recptors overload a few of them are purged."

"And you think copying it will make me numb?"

"That's the idea."

"And the ultrasound?"

"If I can keep it localized, there shouldn't be any psychological side effects. No addiction, no nightmares…"

"Barochamber." House shoots out of the blue.

"What for?"

"Copying the storm. Knock me out once a while and fry the nerves. If you're right I should be fine rest of the time."

"We could give it a try it." Benet shrugs. "Barochamber isn't used much."

"Now?"

"Got any plans?"

House puts, more considering than recalling. "No." His cell phone starts ringing by the end of the procedure. "Let it ring. I'll call them back later."

The caller gives up after three successive sets.

"Same thing next week?" House checks while putting on a thick robe.

"Next-"

Knocking interrupts them. House stares at the opaque door with anxiety.

"Bad timing!" Benet shouts. "Come back later."

"House, it's me." Foreman speaks from outside.

House eases. "Come in."

Neurologist enters discreetly, doors barely open to let him in. His body language is a billboard for discomfort, social discomfort to be precise.

"What is it?" House asks.

"I need a consult." Foreman delays, looking at the two men alternately. "From both of you."

Benet frowns, head pulled back in surprise.

"Forty year old male, severe cramps," He studies House for an adverse reaction and notes only a general dimming of mood, nothing alarming. "…no apparent cause, no effective relief."

"Epilepsy?"

"Already checked."

"Why the stressed face?" House confronts him. "Arrhythmia, respiratory problems?"

Forman shakes his head.

"Pain." He realizes. "Blood pressure critical?"

Foreman hesitates. "Two attempted suicides."

"Attempted. Patient lacks determination." Benet notes.

"Patient lacks competence." Hosue's snide self peeks up, an old defensive mechanism fueled by new motives. Yet he studies the floor. He knows every way a body can hurt and every reason it might. He could help the man like no one else and at the same time he could mess himself up mentally in the process. Same stupid selflessness issue again. "Symptoms?"

"Pain." Foreman's hands do a helpless flap at his sides. "Started in his abdomen and spread. And kept getting worse."

"What kind of pain?"

"Muscle pain." Forman is annoyed at parroting the same answer.

Face down and out of view, House rolls his eyes behind half closed lids. "Doctor lacks competence." He bites. "Take me to him."

Foreman and Benet exchange surprised looks.

"Yes, I actually want to see a patient." House stares determined at both as he's trying to stuff feet into wide shox. "The world is ending." He adds sarcastically.

House fears that being a doctor driven around in patient dress will put him on the receiving end of some uncomfortable stares, but he looks so much like a regular elderly patient that the staff and clients all filter him out as background.

Once Foreman starts slowing down, he figures they're near, and the sight of a man writing in a bed, face hidden behind partially closed blinds, confirms his suspicion. Briefly he wonders why there's no family inside, but watching it is too unnerving to keep contemplating, too close to home. Especially since subconscious keeps supplanting the man's invisible face with his own.

"In."

It's actually inside, in the patient's presence, that the average-patient appearance earns him a glare from the messy, bearded stranger. Their faces are uncannily similar, from rowdy tuffs to sleep-deprived sunken eyes.

"Who's he?" The man asks with annoyance.

The way he's being talked about instead of to makes him tense up with memories of prison.

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Foreman counters.

"I'm his boss." House states lowly, the words unexpectedly invigorating. He has to stop himself from gaping in awe from realization that he is actually considered so valuable he's _superior _to someone. All the more surprising is the fact that, unlike with Stacy's romantic interest, this is a circumstance he can actually buy with no effort.

A wail pierces through institutional white noise, House cowering momentarily in expectation of pain.

"Zack?" The man sounds worried.

Very soon House notices something odd about the cry, wrestling control of the wheelchair from a startled Foreman in order to investigate. Out in the hall he plows through a crowd confused to see a geriatric push forth like a glacier, slow but unstoppable.

He hears someone ask if it's the same thing, than catches a glimpse from behind a crouching woman's shoulder and notes inconsistently relaxed mouth on the boy. Obvious lack of grimace alerts him that the seizure is only so much willful kicking and shouting.

For a moment House is baffled by the action. "Shit…" He mutters, spinning madly around just as Foreman arrives after him. Tugging at metal so fast his arms go ablaze, he races back in,

"What's going on?" The man asks, angry that they've abandoned the kid. "What's wrong with Zack?"

"He's faking it." Blue eyes snap over the room in search of lethal clues, finding none. He starts digging through the drawers.

"What are you doing!?" The man shouts. "I demand an explanation!"

House notices the man's feet barely reach half of the bed's last segment, thighs and bed standing at an angle, a tiresome posture inconsistent with cramps. Before the man notices, House yanks the blanket off, exposing a bleach bottle under his knees. "ER. Fast."

House looks on as a frenzied Foreman rushes the patient out before making a call to Benet. "Could I take a rain check? … Thanks."

Arms tired and sore, he creeps into the hall, watching Chase console the family from considerable distance. Succeeding in his intentions, the younger doctor sees House and joins him. House doesn't freak out when Chase take the handles and begins driving, trusting the youth not to take him anywhere unpleasant, even when he recognizes the hospital chapel.

Silent minutes go by as the two sit in and near the most distant pew. House is no longer a pissed anti theist angry at god as much as his father and society in general, three major authorities of his life which failed him at some point. He needs not pretend at indifference, if only because the other two ultimately lived up to his hopes. Now he really is what he always claimed to be, so sitting in a church is no different than sitting in a waiting room.

Eventually Chase clears his throat. "Do you ever think about… ending it?"

"The tough crossed my mind."

Chase stares with deer-in-the-headlights panic.

"It left." House puts him at ease. "There's always going to be _some_ pain. As long as it's not too much…" He huffs. " Its going to hurt whether I live or not, so I might as well try to."

"That's good." Chase smiles through suppressed tears. "That's very good."

"I have to check up on a patient." House pulls out.

Back at the ICU, House watches the patient come to, better hand covering its mangled counterpart on a patient file. "You have a great kid."

The drowsy man is momentarily speechless. "Thanks."

"You don't deserve him."

"What?"

"You're a selfish quitter."

"How dare y-"

"You're giving up and you don't know it can't be fixed." House interrupts before losing confidence.

"If it could be, someone would have fixed it by now."

"How? You won't let us find out what it is."

"What makes you think _you_ can help me?"

House subtly uncovers his unnaturally shaped limbs. "I know pain."

The man winces from the sight. "Is it as bad as it looks?"

"Worse."

"How can you stand it?"

"I couldn't do it to my-" He stops, not knowing how to label the people. "Kid still needs you."

"I know."

"A colleague of mine has thought of an experimental treatment. Would you try that?"

"Not if you're working blind."

"Can I take a look?"

The man sighs, relenting. "What do you want?"

"Where exactly did it start?" House asks politely.

"Gut… Groin… I don't know."

"Groin. Could be referred pain…" House mumbles. "What did it feel like? A kick? A shock?"

The man shakes his head. "More like… like they were being torn off."

House opens the file suddenly, scanning the labs and images. "fMRI…" His hand goes to the robe pocket on reflex, fishing out the cell. "Foreman? The Ilioinginal. … No, focal epilepsy. … Exactly. … Still too deep. … By treatment. "

"What was that?" The man asks.

"Diagnosis." House pockets the cell.

"You know what's wrong?" He's suddenly enthusiastic.

"Yes."

"Well can you treat it!?"

House nods.

The man falls on the pillows with a bursting snort of relieved laughter. Before he knows it, House is gone.


	56. Only Human

**Only Human**

House's official return to Princeton Plainsboro is a covert event, with him being driven in by Wilson, same as in all the previous visits as outpatient. He is relived by the lack of reporters, and grateful to Cuddy for placing him on the payroll weeks before, time enough for the media hype over his comeback to blow off steam. Almost nothing about the place speaks of his arrival. Only the most astute would be able to notice the subtle upgrades in security, such as a doubling of guard crew on the entry and exit points.

The first man in brown to nod them a greeting is in the garage, followed by one conspicuously marching between the elevators and staircase on the floor and wing housing their offices.

Wilson is silent in leading him into an office that is similar enough to his old one to have the soothing air of familiarly, yet fittingly adapted to accommodate his current state without shouting special-needs.

Those in the know would easily decode the purpose of every item on the floor plan and its positioning: from the solid wall between his and Wilson's office backing a luxury armchair, over a full-panel oak desk facing the conference room, to the overloaded bookcase barrier between door and Eames chair tucked away in the far corner, facing the sunny south and serene campus garden. Between the working and resting zones, leaning against the curtained, glass wall opposite, is a shorter bookcase with a small stereo line and TV, shelves ready for CDs.

House watches, speechless.

Wilson's squeeze on his arm is a hint tighter for a second. "You like it?"

"It's perfect." He whispers, limbs starting to tremble from strain and emotion. "Eames." He nods at the recliner, a blanket ready on its footrest.

Wilson walks alongside, mostly for moral support.

"You have my file?"

An enormously thick blue folder is handed over. House stares at the heavy item in his lap.

"You want me to stay?" Wilson offers.

House shakes his head slightly.

"Feel free to interrupt me. Any time."

"Okay."

Alone, House takes a deep, bracing breath. Having gained much ground in the last months, he feels enough distance exists for him to contemplate the past condition. He gathers courage to open the file, curious about the strictly medical aspect of the case.

The first of many odd facts to strike him is the date of admission, roughly a month earlier than what his blind calculations on the time of waking supplied. But then, it does explain the hole between his last time estimate from prison and dates given by Wilson when they first established abstract communication. A discrepancy previously blamed on lack of any natural rhythm in captivity. He is oddly satisfied to find his weird time telling method, dependant on observation of broadly oscillating feeding schedule and vague temperature estimates, unequivocally vindicated.

Suddenly a month of coma is there in his life. He figures his brain took the pause from torture as opportunity to rebuild his psyche from rubble of the old self, and he's glad to have been absent from the process, even if it left a bit shaky construct.

Deciding not to dwell too long on the unsettling subject, his curiosity about the way they treated him redoubles.

In his expert mind, the abstract numbers and fleeting notes paint a vivid auto portrait, or rather an image of a faceless middle age man of similar construction, if construction has meaning when used on one so emaciate and mangled.

House learns that he was brought in with bruises in all stages of healing, covering every joint and surface bone, his entire back a hectic rainbow stain of mixed up colors, results of skin ground between bone and concrete. Bereft of any significant musculature and no body fat to speak of, he was laid on an air mattress one quarter deflated, to prevent further pressure sores and help current ones heal, which would otherwise never happened.

He is not surprised to find out palliative care of innumerable fractures and ligament tearing, healed or healing, was done through a combination of intravenous opioids and regular epidural injections, combating pain at two fronts: in the brain and body both.

He remembers brief flashes of disembodied awareness drifting in numbness. Memories he considered made up or hallucinated turn out to be true. The pieces falling in line make up for growing comfort.

Another expected finding is the list of priorities. So severe a starvation, dehydration and related ailments, progressed to stages unimaginable in the developed world, were naturally treated first. Dextrose saline with all sorts of vitamin, mineral and other supplements were pumped in him at maximum speed, almost dangerously fast. With no solid food, he developed glacial peristaltic, naturally shedding ileum piling slowly, building a fetal-like constipate time bomb.

A virtually nonexistent immune system lead to a slew of various infections, the worst festering in his airways and many skin lesions. A cocktail of strong, broad spectrum antibiotics and antivirals were delivered from inside and out, through a central line, sprayed on wound dressing and as humid aerosol pumped in the oxygen mask, always in conjunction with appropriate analgesics. With all those chemicals pumped, sprayed or leaking in, twenty four seven, dialysis was the only effective prevention of kidney failure.

And on top of all that, he was kept in a clean room, and the staff around covered in full body scrubs.

Any one of his conditions would be easily treatable on its own, but given the combination, it is a miracle he lived, even after rescue. Living out of necessity is the only explanation he can come up with, as death was simply not an option.

But an even bigger surprise comes when he stumbles onto a four letter acronym that leaves him doubting the competence of his caretakers, because if it were true, he would have been long dead.

"Wilson." House calls out.

Muffled noise of doors and footfalls precedes the friend's arrival. "Yes?"

"What idiot put AIDS in my file?" He holds the disputable paper up.

Wilson looses all cheer. "Chase."

House shakes his head. "No. No, it can't be. He demanded protection." He mutters denial, mostly to himself. "He demanded it because of this. He wanted me to last."

Wilson sits on the footrest, hand gentle on knee. "You know they're not one hundred percent safe."

He does, and even without counting, even not wanting to, he know it's been more than a hundred times. "Why haven't you told me I've got-" House freezes. "Stacy." Dumbstruck words flutter out of him. "She's-"

"House." Wilson waves both hands around in a gestural '_No._'

"Oh,my god, she's-"

"House!" Younger man shouts in his face. "She's not."

House is confused. "How-"

"And neither are you."

"He made a mistake?" House is hopeful.

"No. You fought it off." Wilson grins like an idiot.

"What!?"

"You're immune to it. "

"How could I be-?"

"It's a mutation of a cell-wall protein." Wilson explains. "They just found it recently. It deals onset and slows the progression. One in ten Caucasians has a copy. One in a hundred have two copies of it. They're immune. More in those of Nordic descent."

"My Dutch lineage probably includes a Viking rapist somewhere." House's dark humor creeps back, and he's quietly thoughtful for a time. "It's the plague, right? That's how it appeared."

Wilson is stumped. "How did you know?"

"Same reproductive mechanism." House explains. "Get inside a T cell, don't get digested, replicate till it your clone babies burst out the host's guts."

"That's… very Alien."

"And life imitates TV." He smirks thoughtfully.

"When we found evidence of… well, we checked for all kinds of infectious diseases. You hane no idea how hard it was to get that result back." Wilson clears his throat. "We thought you were just going to expire in that coma, never knowing you were rescued."

"I woke up." House smiles a little.

"Yeah. And the second you started gaining weight, the infections started clearing up. The only reason you had it in the first place is because your immunity was tanked to begin with." Wilson explains. "It vanished the second you got help. So we tested you for the mutation, both copies. We also checked for antibodies monthly, it never showed up again. Ever."

"How many times was it positive?"

"Once." Wilson replies, not quite following. "The first blood test."

"It was a fluke." House declares as if it's universal truth. "The test was a fluke. One time mistake. It's more likely."

"Why would we go for-"

"You wanted it to be that. You want me to be this immortal legend that can't be killed because- I don't know why. But you do. You need this to be miraculous because than it could be destiny, it could be scripted, it could have been planned, it could have a reason. Because if it is than you don't have to think about the fact that this is just random, pointless- fucking unfair." His rant dies in breathless heaves. "I'm not a superhero, okay?" He mutters to the floor. "I'm not."

Wilson inches over, outer side of their legs brushing just enough to convey nonthreatening companionship. "Why do you want so much to be an unfortunate victim?"

House sighs, his eyes closed. "Not my fault. If I ran into a monster by chance… If it was tough luck then I didn't bring this on myself. What I do, the truth seeking, it's not wrong." He looks up with a raw, pleading question all over his face.

Wilson can barely contain the surge of sympathy. "It isn't."

"It was false positive." House insists. "There was protection. I was just weak. The mutation was an accident."

"True. That is more likely."


	57. Dealing With the Devil

**Dealing with the Devil**

House sits alone in his office, contemplating a case presented on the the laptop screen, as raucous rock blares from the small stereo. A sound slips under the music, repetitive percussion not belonging to the song. He turns the volume down, ears perked up attentive, and recognizes the approach of heavy, unfamiliar footfalls. He tenses, hoping they'd pass on by and fade to insignificance, reminding himself that the floor guard would escort an approved visitor and refuse the rest. Fear surges as the person slows, breath held in anxious tension when the noise vanishes at his doorstep. Most cautious of knocks sends him into a panic attack. Eyes go wide when realizes - cover. In a split second he dives headlong under the desk, back curled against the board and knees pulled close by wrapping arms.

"Dr House?" Bellowing bass calls out, familiar but difficult to place. His mind goes frantic in search of its owner, narrowing down on recent acquaintances.

_Chairman whatshisname… Vogler. Right._

He sighs. Relief is soon followed by humiliation and nerves.

_Pull yourself together before he sounds the alarm. _

"Second." House says, hoping the two wood panes between them will mask the odd altitude of his voice's source. It takes over a minute to silently climb back on the chair, one last heave landing him in its cushions. "OK."

Door opens inward, hiding him from Vogler for a while longer. He grips the arm rests to cover up the tremble of fading fear. He notes the way the giant watches him, looking for clues, Vogler's single, brief glance at the still open laptop as the man tests an unvoiced theory. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything important."

House gulps. "I uh, dozed off. Slow day." It's a good cover, seeing how he usually does, working half a shift and napping after lunch, waiting for Wilson to finish and give him a ride home.

"My apologies." Vogler says in bland politeness, not a hint of genuine regret, embarrassment or even awkwardness.

House shrugs, still unable to reproach people, especially not those a foot higher and double his body mass, still sees himself on the bottom of pretty much all lists. Only then he spots the blue file in the man's hand. "You have a case for me?"

"No. It's a new beta blocker I'd like our doctors to advocate."

House squints at the text. "Vitenolol." He reads the name, breezing through the charts. "Solid drop in tachy recurrence. No higher than the old stuff… Why's this one better?"

"Less side effects."

"What kind- Antacid?" He looks up in disbelief. "Heart medicine that prevents heartburn?"

Vogler is blind to the pun. "It's a legitimate side effect."

"Then prescribe Gastal on the side. Two genercis are cheaper than one unnecessary patent drug. Not to mention the fact that patients without acid reflux will develop a malfunctioning stomach - nutrient deficiency, food infections…" The 'upgrade' strikes him as counterproductive. "Who made this stuff anyway?" He turns back the cover. "Eastbrook pharmaceuticals…" House trails off, the name familiar.

House freezes, mind re-running his brief introduction to Edward, or rather the bits he picked up while trying not to freak out in the presence of a seven foot, three hundred pound, _male_ stranger. "…your company." He gulps.

"Doctor House…" Vogler begins in a slow, soft tone, gentle yet patronizing. "You do understand your employment here is… sentimental."

House frowns, refusing. Riley certainly saw him as competent to hold the position. More competent than himself.

This does not stop Vogler from spewing more poison. "One could argue this is part of the hospital's agreement to provide you medical care. A therapy of sorts."

He cannot argue the extreme leeway he was granted.

"You are closer to a day patient here than a doctor."

The degrading words crush him.

"I would hate to cause setbacks in your recovery," Benign facade returns briefly. "…but a part-time advisor with full department-head salary is stretching it, don't you think?"

House nods in agreement, still easily persuaded in own worthlessness.

"Surely you see a little reciprocity is in order."

_Where do I sign?_ He almost says, almost. More contracts, more loss. But a rock hard base of his morality is like an ocean floor below which he can't sink. '_Do no harm.'_

House shakes his head. "No."

"Then we should cease this charade." Vogler waves over the office. "You would not lose ability to consult." He nods pointedly at the laptop. "Only an undeserved salary."

House looks back stoically, fighting the budding sweat and heart pounding like mad. "Fine. I'll take my donation with me. The salary was symbolic anyway."

Vogler looks disappointed, too disappointed.

House squints. "Why the long face? You'll find someone to paddle your bull. Praise from a medical hero would give it weight but is not necessary- " His voice fades as he sees it. "You're hiding something. You're afraid I'll _criticize_ it publicly."

Vogler looks strung between anger and fear.

House feeds on the fear, on the power he now has over this bully who just minutes ago tried to undermine his esteem. "This hospital will not endorse Vitenolol." He knows it's a bluff, but right now it might just pass. "And if you find a sellout to advertise its virtues, I will personally elaborate why we don't."

"Big words spoken by a terrified old man." Vogler stabs icily.

House trembles. "This terrified old man has the ear of two board members. One of them runs the hospital."

"With a hundred million I gave her."

"So did I. And before either of us, she was doing fine." House struggles to keep eye contact. "Dangle that wad of money in Cuddy's nose and she'll see the offer as prostitution. She'll also convince the board of it."

Vogler leaves with the stone façade of calm hiding inner frustration.

House leans back in the recliner, eyes closed and sighing. Relief does not last, all that adrenalin finally taking effect. In the safety of solitude he shakes like a twig, holding back a pounding intent on bursting out of his suddenly small chest. It looks as though he could use that beta blocker right now. His lungs work like mad, sore ribs escalating to parallel strokes white-hot plasma.

He stiffens in the pain's embrace. It only gets worse.

_Easy, easy. He's gone. He lost the argument. Relax. Enjoy it._

Eventually House calms, a smirk playing shyly on his thin lips.

Seconds later concern returns, but not for himself, which makes it easy to remain calm.

He minimizes the mail client and looks up Vogler's biography, specifically Eastbrook pharmaceuticals. Noting their serial patenting policy he decides to examine the changes made in the listed medication.

It so happens that Vitenolol is not the only drug to be upgraded with nonessentials, merely the latest. Vioprill from five years back played on the exact same side effect while other medications dealt with nausea or similar nonthreatening symptoms.

House copy-pastes the data to a new mail, adds a few key comments and picks up the phone, speed-dialing two. "Drop Vogler before a scandal starts."

"_What are you talking about?_" Cuddy is baffled on the other side.

"Check your mail." He clicks send, waits.

"_Where did you get this?" _She sounds shocked._  
_

"Their site. Some Pulitzer wannabe will dig it up eventually. Vogler will sink. It's a 'when', not 'if'. I'd hate to see the hospital go down with him."

"_The board will need a reason. The press will need a reason. And not one that paints us as his henchmen."_

"Tell them he played you, the donation threw you off scent. You didn't expect exploitation from a philanthropist. But you noticed it and now you're mad. That way you end up looking like idealists instead of idiots."

"_You want us to be whistleblowers?" _She is blunt.

Her words give him pause. "Guess I am."

"_We were in it for years." _Frustration explodes on scene.

"Better late than never."

"_House, this is bad. What he did… What _we_ did." _Fear creep to her voice. Guilt too.

"I know." He soothes. It feels strange.

The line is silent.

"Look, I know you won't play his game anymore, which means he's leaving anyway. At least if you dump him you have the upper hand. And the moral high ground. Raise the alarm and you're forgiven. Otherwise you'll end up just one in the line of accomplices. Victims at best."

Cuddy sighs. _"I'll call a meeting."_


	58. Way of the Doctor

**Way of the Doctor**

He lounges in the overstuffed Eames chair with a laptop and a down quilt over his outstretched legs, fingers of his right around a red mug at the edge of the armrest. Two of them are woven through the handle that sticks outward, a new kind of grip improvised out of the limitations of his limb and the need to multitask. With his thumb he taps away a basic, singular beat on the ceramic. The more dexterous left plays with the computer keyboard in his lap.

Slow squeal of hinges is a signature entry announcing Chase, one more in the line of visits exhibiting a strangely random regularity.

House looks up from a screen lined with forum threads and smiles just barely to the youth, who, predictably, caries a folder. Better hand summons the intensivist with a 'come hitter' motion of limited range.

"Pneumonia." Chase says walking over, before handing the file.

House accepts, wondering once more if the consults are a means to jog his mind, or an excuse to covertly check on its state.

Ausie stands attentive as a pupil in the principal's office, watching House skim the pages and taking in every detail of his body language.

Gnarled hands covered with a relief of veins and tendons close a file and offer it to younger, smoother ones. "Bacterial infection." House rasps, then catches himself forgoing confirmation, mentally berating himself for it. "Aspirate to confirm." He holds the file up, closing it with an ingenious flick of the elbow, his most mobile joint.

"You're suggesting a test?" Chase takes the file, surprised. "What happened to broad spectrum antibiotics?"

A skeptical brow quirks up to cover up his lack of guts. "You're suggesting a drug dump? To the man who wrote the book on fighting antibiotic resistance?" He turns the tables.

Chase frowns. "I thought you worked on case fatality?"

"Less intense symptoms mean less intense meds means less chance of developing resistance." He explains.

Intrigued, the Ausie cocks his head sideways. "Except that never stopped you-" He catches himself.

"Say it." House demands, a hint of tension to his voice.

"…before."

House raps the padded handle, thinking. "Before… I used to gamble. Except one in a million does happen and the fallout can be awful. Maybe I won't save as many lives, but-" Another dull eureka. "I know. I know, awful math." He sighs, eyes down.

Chase feels the weight of experience on his mentor and sits, slowly, on the edge of his footrest. "This isn't about resistance." He states certain, mentally feeling for the reason behind the excuse. "You're afraid…" He pauses, thinking, searching for the cause, finds it. "…to inflict pain."

House nods.

The youth goes through a list of side effects, none of which look exceptionally painfully except the very last. "Toxicity?"

Another nod.

Chase swallows hard. "Did this-?"

"No." House waves it off. "No. Peeled skin is one thing I didn't experience."

"But you experienced enough to know what it'd be like."

"Yeah."

Silence settles.

"A few years back a man was brought here with heart failure." Chase begins out of nowhere. "Too old for transplant. Cheese fungus survived a bath in his stomach juices. Killed by over-the-counter meds for his peptic ulcer."

House looks up quizzically, trying to guess where the youth is going.

"By meds he needed." He explains. "It was regrettable, but I found I could live with it. Unlike the girl with an oddly presented infection who we irradiated."

House winces. "Damn…"

"Yeah." Chase clears his throat. "Anyway, this one's stable. I'm no hurry to cause another agonizing death by rushing things." He gets up.

"Wait." House sits up in the chair while putting the computer aside. "Reporter will be here soon. I want to make an impression." He glances at the desk.

Chase helps him up, walking in step as House hobbles off on the crutches like some sort of pendulum toy.

Older man drops into the big chair and huffs heavily. "Thanks."

"Want me to stick around?"

The offer is a balm on nerves beginning to slowly pull taut. "I'd like that."

Instead of a reply, Chase leans on the solid wall by the hallway door. "Interview?"

He nods. "Vogler."

"Huh… Why _did_ you do it?" The youth is curious.

House frowns, genuinely stunned. "You think I shouldn't?"

"No! I-" Chase sighs for calm, then makes a cunning grin. The Ausie's confidence is a transformation. And in a flash of recognition that will need later stomaching, House realises the kid isn't a kid any more. "You make quite a commotion for someone who wants to stay under the radar."

House looks down as if ashamed of some error.

Chase goes back to frowning. "I don't get that. You feel guilty that people know you did a good thing. That you're a good person."

House feels his throat tighten. "I'm not."

Chase waves his head. "During the trial… A lot of people here were asked about you. About what you're like. The term 'bastard' kept coming up a lot." The words are bitter.

House is quiet, almost nodding. It's ironic how literally true the description is.

"But it wasn't true. I couldn't be. I read some of those articles, you know. I know what you did before Princeton. The places you went to do research. Civil wars, kidnap robberies..."

"Safe places have boring germs."

"Right... Civilisation tamed you. You broke policy on every other case. I saw you. Three years I watched you risk your job and license for people we'd never see again. Now you riled a pharmaceutical giant."

He doesn't respond, only seeming to withdraw further in.

"That's not even mentioning the mob. He'll that one was health and life too. That's- that's incredible!" He says with not a little worship. Sadness follows. "Why can't you accept that? Take pride in it." The youth is all but desperate, "Why can't you… -enjoy it?"

House glares off to the distance, defenses up but restrained by the drilled-in urge to not confront.

"Modesty is one thing but you act like that's a crime." Chase plows on.

"Isn't that how it looks?" House finally makes eye contact. "The judge still saw me as a psycho." He rasps. "You'd think that all the stuff you just listed would tip him off that something was wrong." His voice turns loud, shaky. "That I could n-" He all but chokes on a sob.

Chase looks away, giving the proud man at least an illusion of control by ignoring its lack. But House can see his face, the mix of marvel and incomprehension that seams to wonder in awe: 'Why keep doing it then?'

He recognizes the question. "I have… a direction."

"You mean like a purpose?" Chase is curious.

House shakes his head, not an end, but not really a means either. "Like…" He is at a loss of words, "A magnet."

The Auise smirks now, impressed and a bit proud. "You…" He leans in to share a cunning secret. "-have a mission."

The academic in House can sense on the horizon of thought, a one-man, one-sentence statement of purpose and priorities inferred from his past deeds, but the bullied kid has trouble accepting such a thing as internalized morality, can't think of anything worthy of imitating. This, whatever it is, couldn't be ethical because it isn't enforced by authority. If anything it goes dead against it. An odd thing, so private it's never been shared and until now, not even mentioned. Not to Jimmy, Stacy or anyone else. A thing so old he isn't even sure how it started. The closest thing he can come up with is-

"OCD" He deadpans. "I just have to. Even when I see the train wreck coming."

Chase doesn't buy it. "I think you have a calling."

House snubs a sad chuckle. Before he can stop it, the memory rolls like a tide…

Hanging by the wrist binds under a shower of hoses, freezing in the draft. Then the hand, roaming in a mockery of affection, the ultimate insult of unwanted pleasure. Disgusting symptoms imagined in a panicked effort to quell the surge of heat. An unnervingly comfortable heat. Body bereft of attention failing to obey, succumbing at the patient manipulation. Breathy whisper in his ear, a warm caress impossible to ignore, seeping lewd comments in accusations of a perverted nature. Physiological response contradicting identity, disposition and aversions. Inconsistency. Doubt creeping in. A growing fear for sanity. Tears and cold sweat, hidden by preceding wetness, flowing in silent torrents. Uncontrollable tension of shudders and a jerky, twitchy coiling and uncoiling of limbs, misery disguised as enjoyment. Cry of prayer sent silently to the unknowable, a wordless, manic plea to be spared of the sensations, the response, the maddening experience, racing, accelerating -

A gush of anguish, raw and mindless, overwhelming.

Then limp numbness of dejection and a plummet to pain and solitude. Crawling blind through darkness before huddling in the embrace of concrete. And quiet, quiet sobbing, fueled by rejection, abandonment, despair… An orphan.

His lip trembles, and some of the wetness has followed him back, still on his face. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Chase staring, numb, well aware of what has transpired before his eyes, if ignorant of the details. House makes a clearing cough, wipes his face clean in a covert swipe of hand over face and, calming, shakes his head a little.

No, religious is the last thing this could be. It didn't come from his guilt-out catholic mother. Even less so from the religiously legalistic protestant father.

"This… tends to ignore the social contract." He mutters, staring in his lap to hide the swolen eyes Chase could not have missed.

"In that case, I think society has it wrong."

House faces Chase with a low key expression of surprise and eagerness, a nonverbal 'Really?'.

Chase nods.

He looks off thoughtful, intrigued and perhaps for the first time, not resisting the idea.

"I think you should tell this to the reporter."

"I think I will." He whispers.


	59. Pass it on

**Pass it on**

Loud thump on the window sends House jumping out of his skin in fear. Cujo is already on his feet, nose aimed at the offending object. Outside, on the awing, a ball of feathers glued together is inching toward the sunny corner, out of keel. House slips off the thick reading glasses for a better look and spots what appears to be a shivering, _headless_ blue jay, barely standing on one leg.

Tossing the quilt aside, he stands up and grabbs a crutch. Bracing against the bookcase, mantle and walls, he reaches the window. "Siente se." A command is given in passing.

The bird is a mess, he notes, it's head tucked under one ruffled wing, the other hanging limply from what looks like one joint too many. Flight feathers are either ripped out or tussled useless, covered in patches of glue. The bad leg is held up and looking, for lack of a better term, dislocated at the ancle.

Flypaper comes to mind, heavy duty to be precise, except no one in their right mind would put one up at this time of year. All the bugs are either frozen or hiding.

House takes a good grip of the frame and leans the crutch on the chair next to it. Balancing on one leg, he opens the window, at which point the bird tries to run away. It struggles to limp on the bad leg in a knuckle-walk resembling a gorilla's, and the ordeal is painful to watch.

Realizing this is the result of a glue trap, he feels a rush of aimless disdain and disgust. For a split second House feels like heeding his father's hunting advice and putting the poor animal out of its misery. But the ruffled creature, frightened and crippled, reminds him very much of himself. Besides, how could he, a Hopkins' jock, harm their athletic totem?

Very slowly he reaches for it, move of hand less a grip and more an ice cream scoop, glue snaring his fingers on contact. Panicked, the bird loudly screams its high jay-jay call, alarm rising in frequency as House closes a loose fist. Trapped jay pecks his palm desperately and with quite a force.

House hisses, mostly out of surprise. "Easy there. Easy." He strokes his thumb down a single, short patch free of glue. Suddenly House realizes he's got no free limbs to use. "Cujo. Silla." His own free-hanging useless leg kicks faintly at the stool beside him before he nods at the kitchen while repeating the word.

Cujo trots away under House's eye. Clever dog finds the wheeled stool, easily releasing the lock with his jaws and paw, a doggy imitation of House's frequent action, before ramming it toward the human with its thick head.

Once settled, House pulls the bird to his chest, away from Cujo's inquisitive snout, and gives the dog a commanding look. "Bolsillo médico."

Trained to respond with haste at those words, the dog takes off in an urgent sprint, starting a racket in Greg's bedroom drawers. By the time Cujo returns, med-kit in jaws, House has maneuvered himself to the sink.

"Excelente." He rubs and scratches in praise at Cujo's ear before returning his attention to the bird.

Cujo sits on its hinds, peaking curiously over the kitchen element at House's odd behavior.

Water, even lukewarm one, poured carefully in a tiny trickle, sends the bird to a frenzy of panic, kicking and fluttering in an ineffective struggle.

House feels his throat tighten, their similarities eerie. He is reminded of all the times, back from the blind and deaf days, when he would wake up from a nightmare in the middle of the night, ripping the IVs and caths from himself, fearing what they might be used for. Worse yet, these remind him of the times from prison days that taught him to fear medical equipment. He pauses, breathing to restore calm, bird clasped with both hands like a small, vibrating ball.

The drop of detergent is small, cautiously smeared over the down, bubbling into a rich lather. As the glue disintegrates, the jay quiets, starting to realize this giant means it no harm.

Broken wing folded into the resting position with absolute care, House wraps a strip of gauze around the bird's body to hold the limb in place while it heals, than secures the bandage with some sticky tape. The long gauze, wrapped in several layers, is tragi-comically thick, adding to the bird's shaky imbalance.

House is about to inspect the leg when a quiet noise grabs his attention. In the utter evening silence it is easy to pick up on the building door being opened. Stacy's unique stiletto gait shuffles across the short distance.

"Use the key!" He rasps a shout and coughs from it.

"Evening." She greets over the noise of doors opening. "How did you know who it was?"

Aroma of Chinese takeout wafts over. "I smelled you." He smirks.

Stacy maneuvers round the odd kitchen table, food cartons placed by the stove. "Is that a bird?" She leans over his shoulder, right in time to see the 'ankle' relocated. "God you'll be adopting rats soon." He can hear the annoyed roll of eyes.

"Yes. Plague infected." House joins the snark fest while stuffing the blue jay in a nest of kitchen cloth. "Albino vampire ones with big, red, homicidal eyes." Placing the cloth in his lap he drives back to the living room and cautiously settles it on the ember-warmed mantle to hasten the drying, and high enough to be out of Cujo's reach. "No. Nunca." He warns the dog with a firm look and pointed finger. "Abajo."

The dog obediently lies at his feet, nose down in disappointment.

A moment later Stacy follows him with two open, paper dishes. "Sushi for you, Lo Mein for me." Exotic risotto and noodles are placed on the coffee table.

Having shifted to the sofa, House spares a glance at western and Asian utensils, and, finding both useless, forgoes them in favor of fingers. "Itadakimasu." He lifts a morsel in imitation of a toast before devouring it whole.

"How come you always take the basket ones?" She asks between forkfuls.

"Warships." He corrects, wistful smile briefly fluttering in his crow's feet.

Her brows rise intrigued, a look of patient expectation in her eyes.

House lies back, wondering how much to tell. "When I was a teen we lived in Japan."

"Vietnam." Stacy connects.

He nods. "Families were all stationed on the army base. It was more American than America." A mildly resentful half-snigger is huffed out. "Getting to know the country meant getting in trouble."

"Teenage Greg House." She muses amused. "I can picture that."

House shakes his head. "Worse. I was a stranger. Gaijin." The word sounds sour. "Most people don't like foreigners but the Japanese have it down to an art. It doesn't help if your country nuked their country twenty years ago. I was perpetually escaping house arrest. I don't know if he'd ground me because I fought with the natives all the time or because I'd always loose."

He takes pause.

"Being the family mediator, Mom decided if I stayed out of trouble for a week, we'd go to a Japanese restaurant. From the housewife point of view desciphering meals constituted exploring a culture. I managed not to act my age for seven days straight so we had to go. She held him by his word. Marine thing." He waves a self explanatory gesture. "When we got there he told me to find something nice for them. I think he was just setting me up to fail. The menu was all kanji - pictograms. I didn't give him the pleasure. I already knew enough. But nothing sounded appealing. Two thirds down I thought I was done for it. Then I struck 'gunkanmaki'. Warship." Blue eyes light up. "He liked that." A smile creeps up on him. "It wasn't a spectacular diner but for one evening we weren't at each other's throats." House fades off to nostalgia and regret.

It was sad. The highlight of their father-son bond was a single night of anomalous armistice.

Feeling the broadcast of depression, Stacy snuggles at his side preventively, head on shoulder and hand sneaking into his.

House returns the light hold, thumb stroking gently, and wonders if his messed up state and their advancing age should be a relief. This way at least, he doesn't risk screwing up an innocent kid.

Some time into the silence a motion catches his attention. The blue bird pokes a weary head from the roll of cloth, spying cautiously but not yet venturing out.

No. Better he keep to his traditional strength. There's plenty of that to pass on to fully formed personalities. Unfortunately, there's not much to pass on to Foreman and Chase, hell they even stood in for him, and quite successfully. True, the mortality rate was a shade higher but that's just a matter of practice.

Catching on to his focused expression Stacy perches her chin on his shoulder. "What are you thinking about?"

"Getting a new batch of fellows."

"Now?" She pulls away stunned.

House snorts sadly. "Not ready yet."

Stacy snuggles in the curve of his neck. "You will be." She comforts. "Sooner than you think."


	60. Milestones

**Milestones**

He has no idea what got into him, believing he could pull off something like this. What was he thinking, surprising them by going out into the park alone, just once wanting to do a spontaneous move. One advance that didn't have all the excitement sucked out of it from the planning overkill.

Now he's standing in the hospital's back door, frozen in panic, mind in overdrive as un-tough-off scenarios unfurl in his imagination with increasingly worsening outcomes, racing through the improbable into impossible ones.

Self fulfilling fear of failure cuts him down, knee wobbling beneath him.

Sudden grip on his forearm is the last straw. Shocked, he drops the crutches to shield his head, and the slam sends lightning bolts from impacting joints.

People encircle him suddenly and he drowns in subtle sounds and smells now too stark in his mind to make any sense of them. He tucks his face deeper between the knees, arms pressed against ears to block off the threatening sensations. Panic crescendoes, heart pounding out of beat in the depth of throat, threatening to choke him.

Strangers are on him in seconds, working to strip him of the coat's protection. He jerks elbows and feet at them only to find more of them appear to hold him down. Submitting, he stills, nasal whine his last feeble protest.

As if responding, loud words are barked across the sea of murmurs in a commanding cadence and a voice that should be Bootleg's but isn't. It rattles off a volley of orders on the approach, and a whiff of a tropical odor comes as a soothing embrace, bringing up relief of a previous assault-turn-assistance. To emphasize the point, his head is moved to the fleshy cushion of a woman's lap as a hand lightly covers his exposed one, thumbing the upper side in a small circular motion.

Alcohol fumes precede a swipe of moist paper tissue near the spot, as well as a quick poke, far fainter than the lingering pain of falling, that sends a wave of warmth through him. Calm is an abyss sucking him out of danger, and in seconds he is so too careless to even be grateful for it.

The ground beneath him vanishes as the coat pulls tight around his body, head supported by a soft, hand-formed cradle. Blue eyes drift open to find Brenda hanging upside down, talking soundlessly. In a moment of slipping thought he wonders when the ceiling was tiled and why is it spinning. A softness apears under the whole length of him as sensations of motion usher him to a quiet, welcoming shadow.

Mindless minutes disappear in a moment. With open eyes he is blind to the arrival of a caramel blonde. An hour passes in what feels like an absence seizure before he recovers enough to think.

Light of reason dawning slowly in bright blues, he closes them in shame, breaking contact from the sympathetic face he just recently stared at with a dull gaze.

"It was brave of you to try." Kind words feel like a sting of baseless encouragement.

"It was stupid." He turns away.

"Bennett told me you still haven't scheduled the second surgery."

He delays. "Don't want to go back to one-handed."

"Good excuse." She persists softly.

House swallows. "I'm afraid." He says generally.

"Something specific?"

"Noise." He blurbs out thoughtlessly. "I'd like to not jump out of my skin every time someone drops something."

"Sudden noise scares you."

He nods. "Loud too."

"Anything else?"

For a second he is silent and she thinks he will not say a word, not just now. After the seventh concept, she thinks he won't stop. He trails off at the sight of her expression, equal amounts of shock and pity.

"All right." She steadies her voice. "Let's deal with it."

At this he looks up, stumped.

Kate finds a stethoscope, holds it at arm's length and shoulder height, and then lets it go.

He jerks at the dull thud of plastic on linoleum, pulse spiking.

"One…" She picks it up. "…two…" It hangs again. "Three."

Another clang, a lesser jerk. At the third he's caught the rhythm.

"Close your eyes."

He does. The experience is a bit unnerving, but he handles it admirably. Three more drops and he's almost calm. When she stops counting he continues to himself and is not surprised. When the drop comes an unnerving second later he merely gulps. Even a second too early he keeps it together, only outward sign a twitch of fingers.

A few out of sync drops more and she returns to an even beat, this time dropping the stethoscope a step to the right. Somewhere behind all the resulting fear he commends her sneaking.

By now he's got the general idea, and is not surprised to find the impact points move in a straight line, shifting evenly at first, then with some deviation from the mean, and finally in random directions.

When Kate combines randomness of timing and location, it is not scary at all, despite being identical to sudden, unexpected drops.

Until a clang of metal behind his shoulder sends him jumping in the reclined bed.

Her hand is on his shoulder instantly, both pushing him back into a repose and massaging away the sudden tension. "Deep breaths. Relax."

He heeds the hypnotic voice, and is quickly calm.

"Open your eyes." A shadow of a smile greets him. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Without the sedatives." He instructs.

"I'd also like you to do a serenity exercise every eight hours." She fishes a piece of rumpled paper from her back pocket and offers it. "It helped a lot of anxiety sufferers."

He skims the list of pleas for peace, expanding in range from first person and including more and more people in each iteration. An impulse to crumple it in a ball and throw explains why it's in such a bad condition.

"It's a prayer." He offers it back, explanation sufficient. Annoyance pushes aside fear even if he's too taken by it to notice.

She ignores his outstretched hand. "This is a Buddhist mind trick. No deities there."

"It's implied in the phrasing. Clever buggers."

"Less stress means less pain." She goads.

"I can't use this. What do I do with it - preface it with 'whoever it may concern'?"

She shrugs. "If the shoe fits…"

Arm heavy, he lets it rest in the lap, and senses that this was her plan all along. "And this works because?"

"First - it's psychologically impossible to have your mind stray into bad thoughts while focused on something."

"I might as well recite the Beatles then."

"Not as effective." Kate is undeterred. "The repetition of the word 'peace' will automatically calm you. Over a longer period it will also become ingrained, a default mental state. You I'll be harder and harder to faze."

"Fine. _All we need is love_."

"Finally, the focus moves out. You can't think about your fear if you're not thinking about yourself."

"_Imagine_ it is." He says, but fails to return the paper.

"Too complicated." She counters, not without merit. "How about a simple _I am calm. I am resilient._ It has the added value of truth."

"And it's a thought-stopper." He recognizes the trick. "What happened with not thinking about yourself?"

"Maybe because the only thing you can change is you?" She challenges him to deny it, yet in a totally harmless, almost innocently sweet way.

"And reciting this in times of calm is going to help when I'm shocked?" Skepticism returns.

"Ingraining and focus thing again. Plus you can use this version in a crisis too. A little bit of mental placebo."

"That's for the gullible." He grumbles with unease of one deceived a time too many, one who has met placebo's evil twin brother also.

"There are recorded cases of people beating inoperable cancer with autogenics." Kate pulls the ace, the 'big guns' of verifiable facts. "If thoughts can affect physical structures, they can certainly rewire some neurons."

"Well why didn't you go with that one right away?" He all but berates her.

Kate smiles wryly, apparently choosing to prove her intellect another time. "Same time tomorrow." She says on the way out.

"Tomorrow." House leans back, satisfied with winning the little tug of war.

'_But not the argument.'_ He realizes, and, feeling himself expertly played, smiles approvingly at the closed door.

'_I am calm.'_ He thinks. _'I am resilient.'_ In the day's second moment of courage unencumbered by contingency planning he reaches for the coat on the nearby chair. The cell phone is out quickly, and in a succession of selections he phones the first person on the list.

"Bennett? It's me. Got a time slot for that operation?"


	61. Innovative Approach

**Innovative Approach**

_Por gente que pode ler isso - um aviso oportuno da autora:  
Tenho comecado estudando minha lingua terceira. Vai haver erros.  
Se voce quere corrigir me, vou estar muito obrigada. Mas favor, ser gentil._

House shrugs on a plush, navy blue bathrobe over the flimsy hospital gown to block the chill seeping through it, and with Stacy's steady aid steps down into a pair of matching slippers to hide the worst of jail time mementos, his missing bits.

She hands over a pair of lightweight yet solid aluminum crutches and wraps her gentle fingers around the forearm of his less stabile side, touching but not quite holding. _'Ready?' _She raises both slender brows in question.

After a steadying breath, he gives a nervous, shaky nod in reply. _'Yes.'_

She returns the nod with slower, more deliberate manner, and smoothly pulls aside the paper curtain before giving Bennett a firm and telling gaze. She cautiously leads a hobbling House, his crutches rattling with each trembling impact.

The other doctor, an inch shorter but an intimidating twenty pounds more muscular, waits at the inclined bed surrounded with monitoring equipment, a tray of vials and needles right next to it.

The sight of red warning letters on the labels triggers Houses' hypersensitive nerves as inability to read such small and close print causes his imagination to run rampant with worst possible explanations. In seconds he is launched to full-fledged hyperventilation, eyes wide and pupils pinpoint tight.

Bennett is quick to react; stepping between man and medicine to block out the frightening view. Wide palms meet Greg's chest and back, keeping him from keeling over without slightest hint of malicious restraint. "Long term painkillers." Bennett reminds in a soothingly low tone as Stacy circles her own hand a hand over Greg's shoulder.

Physical support implying psychological, House closes his eyes and reaches for the composure of Kate's mantra before daring to look again, and even then only at the floor. Shaky but steadied, he is led to the bed under the watchful gazes and seated on its high surface, crutches left on the side.

Even with the benefit of altitude, he is still on edge, choosing the familiar view of aged palms settled in a draped lap to avoid watching Bennett manipulate the potentially dangerous objects. When hands reach for his robe he spares a startled glance at Stacy but quickly slumps back to discomforted acceptance, allowing her to disrobe him.

Out on the corners of his vision House spies Bennett roll a stool over with a hooked foot. The man sits, making himself even shorter and less threatening before quietly suggesting House to "Lie down and relax."

House chooses to believe his doctor is smart and caring rather than full of dumb luck, and as Bennett suffers inconvenience to place blood pressure and pulse ox gauges from the odd position, his assumption is proven correct.

Stacy urges him on, helping remove the shoes and covering up his lower body the instant he is prone. The bed is quickly folded into a recliner and his knees are thankful for the small mercy. She sits next to him on a guest chair, one hand in his left and the other around it.

"Ok, House, you know the drill." Bennett arranges the vitals' monitors. "Run me through the procedure."

"You set up an IV port in the right hand. A shot of ketamine for anesthesia without loss of muscle tone. This is to allow autonomous breathing in the barochamber." His choice of words is impersonal, shielding him from the fear of upcoming experience. "Sedatives to counteract the psychotic side effects and low dose morphine to ensure total analgesia."

"Go on."

"When the ketamine takes effect you'll put me in the barrochamber. A high-altitude flight simulation, half-hour ascent and descents to overload the pain receptors, causing a purging reaction. Fast enough to cause spiking. Another hour later the injections will wear off and I'll wake up numbed."

Bennett smiles pleased. "Ready?"

Eyes closed, House nods, soon sensing the smell of antiseptic, the cool evaporation of fluid from the skin of his hand. Icy metal ruptures vein, held inside by a length of paper tape. IV port shifts with the insertion of an injection. Cold oozes as the plunger is thrust, injection temporarily replaced by a plug with a light tug and push.

House feels a short, stress-driven worsening of the soreness in his bad thigh and kneads it, turning to Stacy as he is reminded of a similar, now harmless situation. _'De ja vu.' _He makes a half-smirk.

Unexpectedly, she averts her eyes.

_'Hey...'_ House slips the hand form her flaccid hold and sits straighter, closer. He reaches for her chin, lifting it till they're inches apart. _'Look at me.'_

Reluctantly Stacy makes eye contact, discomfort glaring obvious on her face.

Slipping into uncoordinated dopiness, he slightly bonks their heads together. _'It's okay.'_ Noses rub lengthwise. _'We're good.'_ Brows rise, his forehead a plowed field. _'Okay?'_

_'Ok.' _She nods, yet her face remains the same, not much reassured.

Limbs growing heavy with sleep, his body melts out of his control but before fear can register, House feels steady arms laying him down to soft depths.

He lies in darkness, trapped by the ache of cramping muscles, unused for too long from fear of moving the jigsaw of cracked bones. Crying without a sound so as not to annoy the guards, tears mix with adrenalin-driven sweat and blood trickling from a lip bitten too hard. Late in to the summer night dehydration claims him with merciful unconsciousness.

When he next comes to, it is to the smell of lime and a feel of wind swaying a grid-like shadow over the peach glow of his eyelids. Warm water laps at sand-covered feet in a rhythmic hush, his grip around chilly metal yet bereft of the cramping tremble. A manicured hand slips down his sternum to the metal pendant hung on a leather string, silky hair shifting on his shoulder.

Turning his face to the woman next to him, House opens his eyes to the sight of Stacy, dozing nestled at his side on the narrow hospital bed. _'H'lo.'_ He gives a stoned grin.

'_Hey_…' She looks up sleepily, nail grazing his scruff. _'How is it?' _A brow arches.

'_Three.' _He signs. '_Four._'

She sits up straighter, pleasantly surprised. '_Really?_'

'_Yep_.' He nods.

'_Call him?_' She points at his cell phone on the nearby nightstand.

'_Sure._' He shrugs.

Stacy grabs the device and makes the agreed-upon low-priority hail, a three second dial-and-hang-up. Hushed rumble soon opens the sliding door, allowing Bennett into the room.

"Morning." He greets amicably on approach, despite the late hour. "Everything all right?"

'_Great_…' House gives a grateful smile and a thumbs-up.

"Just called to tell me that?" Bennett asks with no annoyance.

'_Yep_.' House nods.

"Ok, then. Procedure 's at 8AM. Get your beauty sleep. I'll tell people not to bother you." Bennett pats his leg on the way out.

Once alone, Stacy gives House a sly look. '_Want more pain relief?_'

'_Here?_' House stares perplexed, throwing a glance at the door. '_Someone could-_' He turns back grinning. '_But they won't._'

Her hand wanders over his chest, under the gown fold and down, past the blanket which slowly sprouts a mound.

'_Yesss_.' His head pushes back, eyes glazing over. '_Right there._' Left hand grabs her undershirt, fumbling to release it of the belt's hold.

Stilettos clack on linoleum, the blanket shifted away and back as Stacy slips in to cover him, gravity providing a baiting view of her front. His hands sneak under the skirt rim to slide up and down the length of her cooperating legs, and suddenly they're both exposed.

Urgently, Stacy works to bare his chest but House grabs the busy hands, grabbing her attention in stride.

She returns one hand to his sternum and a sincere pounding underneath it inspires her to inverse the roles from their previous pre-op vigil. Her finger moves up the bulging scar halving his torso, eyes following it up and higher, till they're soul-gazing again. "I love you."

Her dance in his embrace is slow from the effort to keep quiet. Surprisingly strong, pianist's fingers glide over all the right keys, compensating for the meager motion range of the ruined body. They rise with a slow persistence of a tide, and the waves that finally wash over them are equally tender and enduring. The joy of it is a baptism cleansing him of pain and panic, and the freedom is heavenly.

Holding her hips, he stares with soft longing into her deep browns, and suddenly catches himself forming his thoughts in a different language. It's soft sounds and fluent, mellow cadence feels more appropriate for the moment. Unfamiliar to most people, it enables him to say things he'd never dare utter if he knew she could understand.

"É tão linda." House praises and sees on her face understanding derived from his tone of voice only. The communion is almost spiritual, so he shamelessly appropriates pious words for an equally sacred purpose. "Tão cheia de graça. A melhora entre as mulheres. Sua beleza é maravilhosa." He praises, wondering how he could have missed it before.

"Estava tão cego, mas agora vejo bem." House pulls her down into an embrace, her head on his shoulder and his scruff in her hair. "Estava tão perdido até que me encontrou. Estava um canalha até que me salvou. Sou um aleijado, mas ficou commigo. Estava tão assustado, mas me segurou." He counts the ways she helped him, discovering he is afraid of losing her.

„Favor, não me peça para deixá-te." He pleas to stay, knowing he might as well pledge his loyalty now that the question was asked, even if this phrasing will never be answered. "Onde quer que vá, irei. Quando quer você morrer, vou morrer, e será deitado para dormir contigo."

Stacy turns her face in the pit of his deltoid and pecks lightly on the sensitive side of his neck. "Ditto."


	62. Delayed Gratification

**Delayed Gratification**

Lying bare on his side, House trembles with anxious anticipation, long arms wrapped tightly around knees. He flinches as a paper gown steps into view, nervous eyes glancing up and meeting Wilson's kind browns.

"How are you doing?" Soothes a considerate baritone.

He shrugs. "Holding up."

"It won't take long."

He nods, trying to rid himself of the baseless fear. Paper-wrapped shoes rustle over from behind, his pulse rising despite the whiff of Forman's familiar aftershave.

"Ready, House?" asks the neurologist.

"Not really." He mumbles, the other two waiting silently for his elaboration. "Sometimes… when trying to lucid dream… I don't wake up completely all at once."

Wilson frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Sometimes I can feel a limb, but not know where it is. Until I move it."

"Really?"

House nods shakily. "Is that what it's like?" He sounds childishly curious and a little worried.

"More like partial sleep paralysis." Forman answers. "You won't feel them at all. And you won't be able to move them."

"Sounds scary." House mutters.

The monitors confirm with a rise of vital signs.

Forman can be heard huffing. "Think of it this way. There's no way you'll sense the bones being cut, not even in your dreams."

House startles at the thought momentarily but forces himself from slipping into a panic attack. Seeing Wilson exchange a confused look with his former fellow, he swallows both bile and uncertainty. "Go ahead."

"Applying topical anesthetic." Forman declares, swiping a cool, viscous fluid at the base of House's neck and sacrum.

He uses the pause in procedure to gather his thoughts, still the fears as much as possible by focusing on the convenience and relief the procedure would bring. The touch of paper towel over skin is barely felt. Sound of toolbox being handed over precedes a tingle of iodine in his nostrils.

"Disinfecting." Foreman replaces one fluid with another before manipulating some other tools.

In his mind House envisions the injection assembly, sounds hinting him on the progress, and in fear disguised as preparation he pulls the legs closer against his front as they silence.

Gloved fingers feel for his spine just above the crease of his rear and he flinches in fear unrelated to the procedure, monitors blaring like mad from the sudden spike in vitals.

Forman jerks away as Wilson crouches, coming to eye level. "Hey, it's okay." His gloved hand takes House's wrist, pale from panic. "You're safe. No one is going to harm you."

House nods, closing his eyes and reaching for the recitation of composure. He wraps his mind in it like a with a child's comfort blanket.

Forman's hand returns slowly, cautiously. "I need you to hold still." He asks in a gentle tone.

The needle slides in with a harmless feel of dull pressure, but turns to piercing pain below the skin. House grits his teeth, silently enduring the brief bout of pain.

"Second needle." Forman notes.

Nothing is felt at first, but a sudden jolt of pain robs him of breath. As soon as he can blink to clear his vision of gushed tears, his legs go slack in the tight embrace. "I can't feel my legs." he whispers in quiet panic.

"Spinal delivered." Forman explains in a belayed notice. Paper thin dressing is smoothed over the injection site, the feel of it tight and secure. "One down." Neurologist moves up his spine to half way between skull and shoulder blades. Second injection slips through numbed skin. "Hold your breath."

Ignoring sore ribs, House takes a big lungful, his face contorting in misery as protective tissue resists steel.

Wilson's thumbs small circles over the ring of scar tissue. "It'll be over soon."

Just as he says it the needle punches through and he breathes again like a man surfacing for air, desperate heaves rapidly pumped in and out.

"You're doing great, House. You're doing just fine." Wilson praises. "Just one more pinch."

Forman works on the needle. "Be absolutely still."

"Okay." He mumbles, seeking comfort in the way Wilson strokes his hair and temple. In the wake of repeated agony his arms deny obedience and turn limp.

"Second needle out." Forman notes. "Threading the guide line."

"The worst is over." A smile can be heard in Wilson's voice. "You did great."

House smiles back weakly but keep his eyes locked on unnervingly unresponsive and silent limbs, as if he's trying to make sure they're still there, afraid they'll vanish if he blinks.

"Inserting delivery tube."

An odd sensation of barely discernable pressure fills his back from neck to hips, uncomfortable but not painful.

"Retracting guide." A hiss is heard from behind. "Tunneling the cath."

Dull pressure crawls up his neck, faint at first and somehow thin, later larger, more intense. Finally a kind of compromised sensation follows the now broken-in path and ends just to the side of his spine.

"Cuff and port in position." Forman speaks with finality, his tone pleased. "Let's test the tube."

One last, faint poke is felt at the bump beside his spine, gradual relief slowly seeping from it in a succession of spill points running down his back, pain abating from whole sections of his body. Their advancing fronts merge like waves form raindrops on a puddle.

"Thank you." House pants, tears of relief and joy replenishing the moisture on his face. "Thank you."

Forman is silent, busy smoothing a bigger protective barrier over both upper injection sites. At last he rolls House on his back, letting the older man see his watered up eyes while he covers him from navel to knees. "Thank _you_." He whispers intensely.

House nods and tries to offer a hand, but knocked-out arm stays down.

Seeing House's frustration, Forman grasps the right in a hearty afro handshake before positioning both the man's arms in a more dignified position alongside the torso.

Double doors swing open with a clang of steel on steel, admitting in Bennett and the short, nosy New Yorker. "Morning gentlemen." Guest greets on the strident approach as Bennett nods his hellos. "Lady." A nod is offered to Brenda, who is busy setting up blood and saline bags.

"Holding up?" Bennett asks House.

"Sort of." He mumbles.

The man nods understandingly. "Ok. Nurse anesthetist Previn will put you under." Bennett directs at Brenda. "I will handle the leg and Dr Taub will tend to your arm." Taub nods. "When you wake up you'll be in ICU, under the care of Dr Chase. Tomorrow morning you'll go home. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Dr House?" Previn calls for his attention and places a foam-framed mask on his face.

He stiffens in fear aggravated by paralyzed limbs, shaking his head with breath held in refusal of anesthetic.

"House?" Wilson steps around the table. "House, what is it?"

"No." His head shakes with desperate resistance. "Can't."

"Talk to me, House. Tell me what's wrong."

"It hurt." He rushes the words out. "I woke up. He was- and I- I couldn't move. It hurt. It hurt so much." He dissolves into tears as rapid mechanical beeps punctuate shocked silence.

Wilson's the first to recover, his knuckles passing lightly over House's thinning hair. "That's not gonna happen. Not here. Not now. I won't let it. You can trust me."

House shakes his head again. "Can't. Can't. Sorry. Ca-"

"_**Hush.**_" Wilson is just loud enough to cut through the panic. "Don't apologize. _Never_ apologize."

House calms some, barely, but keeps his eyes closed, still evading. "I can't."

"We can't do the surgery with him awake." Taub points out.

"Why not?" Forman asks. "Technically he only needs sedation. He received two spinals and full length epi. I can monitor his perception with EEG and maintain analgesia."

Bennett shakes his head. "EEG's not sterile."

"Neck above is non-sterile area." Brenda shrugs, nonchalant.

"It's not." He wonders briefly. "Any other problems?"

"Noise, obviously." Wilson replies. "Even with sedation."

"He used ear plugs when we removed the cast." Bennett recalls. "We'll need those too."

"You okay with that?" Wilson thumbs House's cheek.

"Player." House replies mysteriously. "Maxed out volume. The bones… I don't want to know."

Bennett mulls it over, mouth shifting side to side. "All right." He straightens like a battle ready general. "Mrs Previn, prep an IV. One cc of sedatives." He points at her, than the man opposite. "Wilson, get his player. If we're going to stick his head full of wires we might as well go all the way."

Oncologist rushes out too.

"Taub" Other hand thumbs at the wall behind them. "Double check the X rays. One last review before they come back."

"Will do." Surgeon leaves House's personal space.

Bennett in turn steps closer. "Sure you can handle this?"

"No." He says faintly. "I'll try."

"You know once this starts there's no going back."

House nods.

"If your vitals hit critical I'll have to knock you out."

House makes a pained grimace, like a slow motion flinch.

"House. Do we have your permission to anesthetize you should your life be in danger?"

He is still for a long time. "Yes."

Bennett taps his chest. "All right."

House feels the sedatives dissolve away anxiety and a major part of awareness. When Forman and later Wilson set up their respective plunder, he is almost oblivious to it. The music is loud, drowning out the conversation between fellow doctors, but he doesn't mind. Sedatives inspire synesthesia, artistic mind painting moving colors across the canvas of his imagination. With limbs numbed to virtual absence, he feels almost disembodied.

Sometime into the looping album a low buzz is heard from the background, shifting over his left side like a mosquito in flight, but House ignores the irrelevant sound.


	63. Ties that Bind

**Ties that Bind  
**

Soreness of back muscles kept too long in the same strained position wakes him to a concert of aching pressure points scattered about two diagonal limbs. It's not a new thing either, inevitable actually with joints that prefer angles incompatible with straight surfaces, regardless of pliability.

Dozy and dazed from the drugs fading from his system, he tries unsuccessfully to figure out why opposing parts from both his sides hurt if he hasn't been sleeping on either.

Trying to move the stiffened limbs, he meets resistance of solid, encasing weight and it shocks his eyes wide open. Things fall apart in a racing downward spiral as unfamiliar shadows cause his heart to skip a beat or two, subsequent beep of the arrhythmia alarm hurling him to a panic which climaxes in utter, mindless terror at the sound of feet racing from several directions on his immobilized, defenseless self.

He tries desperately to curl into a small target for their nightsticks, but the stiff weight of strange restraints makes the goal impossible and the effort laughably awkward.

To his fortune the alarm goes dead and Chase's voice, worried yet steady, repeats a soothing word like some broken record. "Easy, easy…" A hand is on his chest, feeling for the pulse in a more humane manner.

Calming, he opens his eyes again, this time to Aussies cherub-like face, and with a glance around orients himself in space, deducing to his great relief the post-op in ICU which Bennett promised.

"Better?" Chase asks just in case.

House nods. He doesn't remember falling asleep, but vague memories of a hybrid, marine-samurai role-play ensure this is not one. Panic retreats at the return of diffused dull aches and scattered sharp pangs.

It isn't that the epi has failed, on the contrary. Without it the cloudy night would be torture, just breathing would be painful and moving unthinkable. But anything added to the mere ache of being is a whole other issue.

House grunts, longing for the days just after release, when a five year long sleep debt assured he would sleep like a baby through whole nights and a better part of his days, regardless of weather, often finding shelter in it from excruciating agony. All he can do now is snatch an hour or two of uninterrupted rest before the sum total of small pangs stirs him from sleep.

Immediately guilt overcomes him, chastising the ingratitude for what he has been spared, and, atop that, what he regained. But the rational part of him also knows that he can't function properly on a schedule of intermittent naps, and that no critically ill patient deserves a head physician retarded by insomnia.

"Prone." House speaks quietly. "Please."

"Want to turn around?"

He nods.

"All right." Chase says, moving the covers out of way for a time. "Haines or recovery?" His first instinct is to go with emergency medical procedures.

"Recovery" House replies. "Can't raise arms." One forearm is lifted to just under shoulder level, but even that is pushing it. He maneuvers his limbs into positions recognizable to any first aider as Chase walks around him.

"On three." Chase says, taking the hand of the free arm to immobilize the IV port. "One, two…"

A push later House flips over like a pancake, arms to the side and legs bent in odd but not unnatural angles. Reversed posture brings relief to a number of sore spots, promising discomfort to a similar count of their counterparts.

Chase sits on the empty bed next to House's. "Want to talk about it?"

House makes a questioning expression.

"You freaked out just before surgery."

He closes his eyes, pushing back the memory. "Not before sleep. Bad dreams."

"Oh. Okay." Chase rises again, pulling the covers higher over House and smoothing a hand over his back. "Sleep well."

"Thanks." House yawns the reply and the weariness quickly pulls him under.

Bugs plague the coming dream like some bizarre nature documentary, from intriguing mantises and striking butterflies to mildly annoying mosquitoes and plague-bearing, lethal fleas.

Two hours later he is sensitive again, crack of dawn interruption enough to wake him. This time he opts for the recovery position, but with increasing daylight he finds sleep elusive so waits for the morning round. He ponders on the problem, sketching out its details and juggling alternative solutions, his musings interrupted from time to time by a thought on the strange dream.

Mosquitoes inspire him in the end, or rather the memory of research on mosquito-borne illnesses done in the tropics of Latin America. He recalls with pleasure the sweltering nights spent in colorful hammocks, and wonders if anyone would call the nice men in white clothes if he suggests installing one at his place.

But the idea is quickly discarded, as all the benefits of the sleeping net vanish with the introduction of the second sleeper. And as scarce as Stacy's sleepovers still are, he cherishes them greatly.

Putting the brainstorming for later, House feels around in search for the call button and in seconds an alarmed Chase is back.

"What is it?" Concern and exhaustion mix on the Aussies face.

"I was awake."

Chase stands three, confused.

House goes to make a point but his left surprises him with disobedience, and he's forced to improvise with the right, a bizarre thought that makes him stare at his hands for a time.

"House?"

Coming back, the old doctor points at the mountain-like scar halving his chest.

In a split second packed with stunning eurekas, Chase recognizes the first cut of autopsy, and then the full shock of House's combined statements robs him of breath, leaving him gaping silently.

"Yeah." House sighs with resigned acceptance, then watches, mildly surprised, as Chase moves to sit beside him on the hospital bed.

Healed hand in the grasp of the healthy one, Chase gives him a little squeeze, and a tome-load of emotions pours from youthful, blue-gray eyes, glazed with held-back tears, so much that House can't bare to watch it.

House closes his eyes as an immediate response but it feels too much like a totally inappropriate dismissal, so in a move that confuses Chase in return, he sits up with some difficulty and slumps in the younger man's embrace. The hug is returned almost desperately, a glimpse at the depth of affection House couldn't have guessed. In a moment he recalls both the hints at the youth's messed-up childhood, and the three years of one-on-one mentor-student bond they shared, so tightens his hold to match the Aussie's.


	64. Manhunt

**Manhunt**

Wilson's Volvo sedan pulls into the handicapped parking space in the hospital's underground garage just as House's phone bleeps with an inbound message. House reaches for the phone and opens Stacy's text message - a string of digits that is another phone number. He pockets the mobile and shifts into a pair of sturdy crutches, hobbling on one foot as the casted one sways in time with his short hops.

When the two doctors enter the cargo elevator, House punches an extra button -ground floor.

"Why ground floor?" Wilson enquirers.

"Cuddy." He replies. "Don't wait up."

Wilson smiles his pride at House's solo wanderings around the hospital.

As the elevator dings, House slips out, bee-lining for the administrative wing and crossing the waiting room crowded with strangers as fast as his short strides allow. One of the guards spots him and notes the trajectory ending with two double doors, cautiously moving to intercept.

House takes pause at the uniformed man walking into his peripheral vision but relaxes visibly when the guard opens the first door for him. A relived and grateful smile later, he is knocking at Cuddy's office.

"House." The dean sounds pleasantly surprised, her smile a warm welcome. "What brings you here?"

"I'm on the look for fellowship candidates." House cuts straight to business.

"I'm glad you're up to it." Cuddy is delighted. "So why the change of heart?"

House shakes his head. "I'm not promising anything yet." He huffs. "I'd just like to see what the options are."

"Well I hope you stick to it." She points, almost as if ordering. "I'll have a list ready ASAP."

He nods and leaves without goodbye.

Cuddy notes the small hint of the old, arrogant bastard that he once was and smiles for it.

Up at his office, House slumps heavily into the tall chair. The cell phone taps its corner against the dark wood of the diagnostician's desk as he stares unfocused at the black bloater, weighing the pros and cons of using the phone number Stacy messaged him. The mere fact he obtained the number of this particular colleague of hers is measure enough of his distress. That he actually considers asking the man for a dubious favor pushes it clearly into desperation.

But he's struck a road block, unable to move on with his recovery when fear of having it all undone lurks just beneath the surface. He thinks himself insane for even considering the call, but needs the closure of having Thompson's lawyer dealt with. Being plagued by waking nightmares of the man's unpredictable return is the one thing he can no longer endure. But with all legal recourse exhausted, he is once again reminded that the game is set up against those who play fair.

A glance at the fixed phone on his desk reminds that the hospital's internal grid will provide him with an edge in this exchange before it even begins. With a bracing breath, he enters the long number, presses dial and places the handle at his ear, waiting on edge for the ring-tone to end abruptly.

'"Robert Arnello?" He speaks up the instant they are connected, taking the upper hand in their conversation to preempt Arnello's angry surprise.

"Who are you?" The man is expectedly tense.

"I am Doctor Gregory House." He announces calmly, bringing to bare the full authority of his title, formal name and famous surname.

Silence hangs briefly between them. "The framed one?" Arnello sounds surprised.

"Yes." He replies curtly.

"Where did you get this number?"

House gulps. "I have connections." He bottles the tension.

"Well he'll be sorry when I find out." Arnello threatens with unnerving cool.

House knows it best not to correct the man, either to cause an argument or hand clues to the informant's identity, choosing instead to steer the conversation in his desired course. 'I have a proposal for you.' He speaks with well faked confidence, practice bringing prowess.

"What kind?" Arnello is intrigued.

House takes a moment to gather his thoughts. He has to deliver this extremely cautiously to sell it and not have it backfire. 'I can tell you the name of the man who kept your brother from getting treatment.'

"Treatment?" Robert is confused. "He was poisoned. The autopsy confirmed it. There was no antidote." Arnello is dead certain.

"I know." House keeps his voice agreeable. "But the dose needed couldn't have been planted. The poison is bitter to the point of inedible at the required amounts."

"Then how?" Arnello all but stutters his bafflement.

"Your brother had a genetic flaw. He couldn't metabolize a certain protein. His body was poisoning itself."

"How do you know this?"

"I'm looking at his file now."

"So why didn't the other doctors see it?"

House gulps again, grateful for the censorship of non-verbal signals inherent in their mode of communication as his mind drowns in the knowledge of Thompson's overreaction to Sarah's diagnosis, the involvement of his former fellows in the mobster's case and the fate of Arnello's guards once the autopsy showed toxicity. He chooses his next words very carefully.

"There is a reason why I'm the famous diagnostician and they are not." House once again fakes arrogance. "Their fellowship hardly started when I was... incarcerated." He uses the Latinesque, academic term, one with the most civilized air and least implications. "The only person who could have figured it was me." He explains calmly, redundancy driving the point home and sweeping his younger colleagues clear of any fallout.

Arnello's latent anger gives way to patient silence. "If it was genetic, how come he didn't have problems before?"

"The body had a correct copy of the gene and used only that one until the stress messed things up."

"Bobby wasn't stressed." Arnello is adamant and confused. "He was a mob boss."

House gathers his focus again, needing to lecture a mobster. "It's not the violence we fear but the unknown." He speaks form experience of one suffering random abuse. "Being a boss was familiar and thus safe, being a protected witness was the dangerous unknown."

Silence indicates acceptance. "Are you're saying he could have been cured?"

"With a change in diet." House confirms.

Another stretch of silence as Arnello ponders. "Thompson framed you and that killed Bobby." He utters.

House nods, then verbalizes. "Yes."

"Thompson is dead." Arnello sighs with heavy, regretful finality. "What's the proposal, then?"

"His lawyer orchestrated everything." House explains, derision and fear slipping into his voice.

"And you want him to pay." Arnello is certain in his assumptions.

"I want to know for sure that he can't come back and continue."

"I'm guessing he escaped south of the border." Another assured statement.

"Columbia." House elaborates.

"Thompson's crack providers." Arnello connects the dots.

"The same."

"Accidents happen all the time. Rich folk in South America are never safe from violent robberies. I hear Columbia is especially dangerous with all those gang wars. Civilians often get caught in the crossfire."

"I'd rather see him get life than death." House almost pleads.

"Off course, he _was_ part of the mob. Columbian police is known for catching the small fish. And their jails are terrible places."

"Indeed." House is shamed to catch a hint of glee in his response.

"You know his name?" Arnello asks in unspoken acceptance of the offer.

House sucks in a hard breath. "Ira Adler." He whispers.

"Adler..." Arnello sounds thoughtful, the face behind the name just out of reach of his memory.

"Bring him to justice and you can strike slave trading from the list for Saint Peter." House explains, fear, pain and bitterness escaping his control.

Long, tense silence fills the ether between them, stretching to unbearable.

"You'll never hear from Adler again." Arnello speaks with the same, cold, dead certainty from before. "Ever."

"And you won't hear from me either." House returns, hanging up with an exhalation that would shame a professional diver.

A knock on the door jerks him form numb silence to simmering fear, audible in his call to the visitor whose approach he failed to hear.

"It's me." Cuddy announces herself.

"Come in." House sighs relief.

She enters cautiously, a large folder in her arms. "Ten soon-to-be-graduates I've lectured. Decent characters." She hands the heavy thing over. "I considered writing them recommendations. Their records are inside."

House nods and opens the navy blue cardboard. Zoe Lee, a bright looking and modestly dressed Asiatic girl looks up from the small photo attached to her file. "I'll check them out." He looks up. "Thanks."

Cuddy gets the hint and smiles through a nod. "See you later." She says in way of goodbye, leaving House to investigate.

Wilson makes his predictable visit at lunchtime precisely and immediately notices the small pile of paperwork strewn about the desk. "Who are these?" He asks, picking the top file from the closest stack.

House points a red ball-tip pen at the pile. "Those are instant rejects."

"So what 's wrong with…" Wilson turns the file to its cover "... Malik Jamaal?" He reads the name. "His grades are good."

"He's an idiot." House deadpans.

"Oh?"

"Malik Jamaal, born Thomas Irvine, changed his name at twenty one. Means he was trying to reconnect with his African heritage. Except slaves came from West Africa and he's a Bantu type by the look of him."

Wilson raises one thick brow.

"There are very few Muslim among West African Bantu." House points out. "The guy failed his homework epically."

"So who _did _make the cut?"

"So far these three." House hands him the. "First one 's Zoe Lee, wannabe cardiologist. Smart pick with heart disease being number one cause of mortality - and rising."

"You think she's in it for the lives, money or job security?"

"That's what I intend to find out."

"What about… Felipe Tiago da Silva?" Wislon spots an ollive lad with casual clothes and faux-ethnic accessories.

"A caboclo on Brazilian federal scholarship. Wants to treat kids." House's approval is audible. "Ambitious little fella considering pediatrics covers just about every other kind of medicine."

"Minus reproductive." James follows. "He can walk the walk by the look of his grades." He looks impressed. "Last one?"

"Jack Cole. A Sheltered Boston Brahman WASP who speaks fluent Spanish for no other reason than he wanted to and has a soft spot for infectious parasites."

"Grouse." Wilson notes off hand. "Lunch?"

House grins.


	65. Square One

**Square One**

It happens in the park of all places, smack in the middle of a pleasant weekend drive around the tall, muscular Caucasian, a mere inch shorter and a few pounds lighter than Clarence, approaches them with nonthreatening, casual slowness.

"Doctor House?"

Greg gulps, instinctively dreading the formal salute. He's grateful for the weariness that necessitated the use of a wheelchair, as his disobeying knees would have landed him unceremoniously on his ass were he on crutches. "Yes?" He braces, free hand reaching for a quickly returning Cujo.

"I'm detective Michael Tritter, Trenton PD." The man introduces himself to House's growing dismay. "I've been monitoring Arnello's communication for a month now."

House's eyes grow large as he stares in a man that is by all superficial appearances his counterpart, his pulse on a steady rise. Cujo watches his master and ward with quiet concern.

"Your phone call is the first unambiguous indication we got of his criminal past."

"No." He shakes his head, mumbling, as panic surges in him. "There wasn't any-"

Detective Tritter pulls a small, digital Dictaphone and presses play.

"… _you can strike slave trade from the list for Saint Peter."_ Houses own voice proves otherwise.

He freezes, hyperventilating, and Cujo turns to the officer, his hackles rising. Seemingly casually, Clarence hooks a finger under Cujo's collar to prevent the dog from mauling the cop. "Sir, leave him be." He adds just a touch of a dare into his cadence.

"Stay out of this, Clarence." The detective tells him off without moving his eyes off House, subtly ignoring both threats, certain his use of the name will give them all pause. "You wouldn't want to risk your parole."

They freeze, House gulping visually as Clarence's body language looses its imposing nuance.

Tritter's response to their caution and fear is a smile the men find unnervingly off key. House slowly figures the expression is not a gesture of affection but a showing of teeth. He clearly senses the depths of Michael's clinical mind, a terrifying potential for cold-fire violence, certain as if possessing his pet's olfactory intuition.

Sseeing a challenge, Cujo bars an enamel saw of serrated teeth and growls a well-deep threat.

Tritter turns to the animal and calmly locks eyes, trying to stare it down with his self-confidence.

But Cujo doesn't back down, instead leaping out of Clarence's hold to push Tritter off balance, splaying him on his back. He barks angrily in the man's face, drool and spittle everywhere. It lasts only seconds as Clarence is quick to drag the dog away.

The dirty, bruised detective rises to his feet with his smug arrogance replaced by seething frustration. Trying to wipe clean his shoulders only smears the olive-colored mix of wet earth and squashed lawn down sky-blue sleeves. He issues a noise between huffing and grunting. "You will be subpoenaed." Tritter glares at House, turns and leaves.

"Come on, doc." Clarance speaks softly, more quiet than usual, out of ear-shot of the retreating detective. "Let's go home."

House, only slightly relieved, gives a curt, tense nod. Their ride back is silent, mutual concern snubbing any mellow small talk.

Back at the apartment they pretend at normalcy, each turning to a private activity as instrumental music fills the void of absent voices. Cujo gnaws at a toy and Clarence cooks pasta while House e-mails Stacy a request to look up witness rights, specifically those pertaining to refusal of testimony. He hopes to find some precedent stretching the terms 'self-accusation' or 'facing the accuser'. No sooner than the mail is sent, Cujo is up on all four, his body language a clear sign of danger.

The doorbell rings, prompting an exchange of uncertain glances between Clarence and House, as no one is expected or appointed at the time.

"Gregory House." The disliked detective is back sooner than anticipated.

House steels himself with fake calm, reminding himself that this is only a delivery of paperwork Stacy will no doubt take care of. He's seen her tackle bigger quagmires. "Coming." He shifts to crutches, hobbling to the door. A deep breath to brace oneself and he twists the knob with Cujo on his haunches at his side and Clarence looking out from the kitchen door frame.

When the door opens he freezes on trembling arm and opposite leg. Two men flank Tritter, grounded at his doorstep. The uniformed officer, epitome of generic Caucasian male, and an stocky, butch blonde from animal control, her noose-on-a-stick tool launching a torrent of horrible flashbacks.

"Arrest warrant for Clarence T Brown." Tritter holds up a folded paper in the space between them. "Of course, if you cooperate I could overlook the fact that the park is technically not part of the campus." He blackmails. "Not listed among his green zones."

House shakes his head vehemently, gripping the chest of drawers in order to stay upright. "I can't… not again… Thompson… jail…" He whispers thought fragments as they come, his mind torn by conflicting fear of angering another mob boss and landing another jail stint. Whispers die in quiet whimpers, the world around him spinning, falling, torn apart in its spiraling descent into a black hole of fear and frustration.

Cujo's sudden jump startles House, control lost as he slips and falls, spine impacting the top edge of the chest of drawers. Milliseconds later a hard landing sends the vertebra slamming one into the other from tailbone to atlas like dominoes. Pain blends with the rage in Tritter's growl and his mind is back in solitary, shuffling against the cool, hard floor for the illusion of safety of the concrete corner.

A bang goes off close by.

He scrambles for Kate's mind tricks and comes up short, hearing in his head only Alison's vague whisper.

"_Hide."_

He hears Cujo's yelp and the dreaded cop again, loud, angry, his mind working just enough to recognize the tone of swearing and orders, but no words.

Clarence's voice, then arguing, a new voice, uncertain, another one, his name being spoken here and there, mentioned instead of called. Less and less details with each stimulus, less and less reactions, less and less response.

Hands on his shoulders, feet dragged, shifting from seat to seat, Gs pushing and shoving him every which way for an untold length of time. Yet more shifting and Gs and shifting. Before he knows it, he's seated on a plywood chair in a small space, Tritter's quiet, somber voice echoing off smooth, featureless walls.

After minutes or hours of human droning, a friendly voice cuts the monotone.

House opens his eyes slowly, as if coming from hypnosis, and looks up at the Hispanic officer in civilian clothes, his face a plea for help, pure and raw. He's still not coherent enough to follow their conversation, realizing only that she is leaving again, leaving him behind, in danger. His eyes stay on the door, vision blurred from the stinging wetness in them.

They open again for Stacy, striding in pissed off, and are left open. She's in Tritter's face in seconds, her rage quiet to match his own. A balding, pudgy man in a two piece appears in the door frame and waves Tritter over.

As they talk outside, Stacy squats to next to House. "I'm getting you out of here." Her certainty is reassuring, drawing him further out. Muffled snippets of the hallway argument drift to Houses awareness, telling of someone on unknown third party pulling a stop on this course of investigation. A second later the suit nods to Stacy, who in turn smiles at House.

House doesn't know if it's Arnello's threats, bribes or something else entirely, and frankly doesn't care. All he wants is to be home, forgotten by the wider world. That and to know what's gonna happen to Clarence.

"He's released to the halfway house, the charges of breaking parole terms are dropped." Stacy explains.

Released and exhausted, House sleeps through the ride back, and merely trades the back seat for the living room sofa when she pulls over at his place.

Even when Wilson returns from a family obligation, House is too traumatized to retell the day's events, pretending to doze while Stacy takes to the chore in a whispery voice.

"So who was it?" Wilson asks, somewhere by the end of the story.

"Police chief said the mayor asked him to kill it, on orders from higher up." She explains. "Probably the governor trying to avoid a scandal in an election year."

House's sigh of relief is obvious, so he pretends at just rousing from their conversation. His eyes fall to the empty stretch of carpet between him and the coffee table. "Where's Cujo?" He asks, glancing between them.

"In the pound." Stacy answers sadly.

"Well can't we go get him?"

She shakes her head. "He bit the detective."

House is quiet, understanding "Red card, game over." Even as he accepts the death penalty, a half-formed idea flutters at the edge of his thoughts, associated with hospital maecenas and former patients. "The president." He whispers suddenly. "Foreman and Chase treated him."

"And?" Wilson is cautious to see where this will go.

"He pardons turkeys." House is level headed.

Stacy pouts thoughtfully. "Well he can pardon death penalty, that's certain. And there's president for him doing it to other species. So technically…" She grins.


	66. Friends in High Places

**Friends in High Places**

House squirms nervously on the passenger seat in anxious anticipation. He doesn't know if he wants time to rush and have the whole thing over quickly, or slow to a crawl so he could get a grip on himself.

In between changing traffic lights, Stacy spares him a concerned glanced from behind the wheel. "How are you holding up, Greg?"

"Hanging on." He exhales in an effort to restore calm by self-suggestion that isn't really working. "Cuddy didn't say who it was?"

"Just that he's a grateful benefactor who doesn't like publicity." Stacy nigh quoted the dean's words.

He nods, gazing out the window, his eye caught by the inordinate and increasing number of nondescript vans lined up inconspicuously along the road inside the campus. "Who _is_ the big shot?" He mutters quietly but energetically. "I helped save a lot of people, but no one needing black op vans."

"They're not black ops, Greg." Stacy snickers. "Those would be black." She reasons to calm him.

An uncommitted "Hmm…" is as close to agreement as House comes. His list of rich and famous patients is short - a baseball pitcher returning from drug addiction, a jazz musician returning from a misdiagnosis of ASL… Or maybe it wasn't someone famous, just rich. Like the businessman who brought his son a nasty souvenir from his stupid Indian adventure. Too many options and none making sense. Why would any one of them wait all this time to make their donations? Or maybe they couldn't, not yet. Perhaps it was that adopted kid, only making big money now. Quite likely if he went from varsity lacrosse to professional sports in the last six years.

His musings are cut short by the facade of the teaching hospital appearing around a cluster of tall, red maples.

As usual, they go through the garage, but unlike usual, the pharmaceutical delivery van is there, after working hours, when it should have made the round this morning. House frowns as jittering returns to his gut, and fights a recurrence of arrhythmia. When agent Miles pops up from the van's rear, House is caught in a pleasant mix of relief at a friendly face and glee of vindicated reasoning.

"Hello doctor." The man greets politely, professionally.

"Agent." House nods, albeit a bit nervous, wondering what's going on.

"Got any guns on you?"

"Uh, n-no." He stutters, caught off guard by the unexpected question as if it were an accusation.

"Good." Miles smiles, his big arm waving at the elevator. "After you."

He wheels in besides Stacy as the agent holds their rear and enters their destination - ground floor. For a split second House wonders if the guest is actually the President and immediately discards the thought as preposterous.

In the lobby he spots a swarm of hospital guards standing at parade ease, seven in total. Three are by the nurses' station watching the front doors, clinic and ER respectively, another two opposite elevators and stairs. The last two guard plastic double doors of the administration wing. Watching incoming people, he reasons. This is stricter detail makes his hairs stand on end.

Mercifully, Cuddy is there alongside one, approaching with ease and a subdued, cunning smile. "House." She greets casually.

"What's going on?" House asks immediately, politeness trampled under anxiety.

"Someone wants to express their gratitude." She takes over the wheelchair handles and aims him toward her office.

House takes what he gets, only relaxing momentarily, because a second later he sees a pair of tall and muscular men, dressed in jet-black two-piece suits with fitting ties, standing at attention in between the administration's doors and the dean's oak ones. He stiffens.

"You all right?" She asks, seeing his tension.

House nods in a shaky motion, somewhat relived that an old friend will accompany him through the gauntlet of stern strangers.

Cuddy pushes him on and the security detail opens the doors for them. His confidence is crushed more by their quick, dismissing glance than all the lengthy non-staring any civilian has yet managed.

Beyond the second pair of doors, an elderly black man sits on a guest chair backed by a semi circle of windows and concealed from the general public by lowered and slanted venetian blinds, thoroughly opaque.

"Senator Wright…" He manages a mumble, barely. Well the man was a senator last he checked.

"Doctors." Wright stands up and makes a courteous half-bow, half nod.

"Mr President." Cuddy replies, as a mute House nods, gulping.

"Thank you Dr Cuddy." The president offers a warm smile, slipping a subtle hint of dismissal in the heartfelt expression of gratitude.

She smiles back and places a comforting hand on House's shoulder. "I'll be right outside."

Head turned to the side and down, he nods, watching her out of the corner of his eye, then turns back to Wright once she's out. His expression beckons the man to begin before his nerves kick in for real.

"I understand you're back at work." Wright waves his hands vaguely around.

"Giving consults only." House corrects.

The man cocks a head. "The dean told me you're looking for new fellows."

"Looking." House emphasizes.

"Then I hope you find them soon." He drums his fingers.

Only then does House notice a flat, square box of navy blue leather with the presidential seal inlaid in faux silver under Wright's hand. His eyes go wide.

"Presidential citizen medal." Says Wright. "Second highest honor I can personally give, for acts of exceptional service to one's fellow citizens."

House's incredulous gaze lifts from the box to the president.

"I believe torture in exchange for others' lives is exceptional enough."

He blinks.

"Of course, I am willing to offer you a trade up."

House frowns.

"Presidential medal of freedom, the highest honor, for exceptional contribution to national interest. If you train at least seventeen more doctors in advanced diagnostics."

"Seventeen?" House utters, baffled by the arbitrary number.

"You used to take one in twenty cases on average. Given the fact there are now two more doctors of caliber comparable to your own, that makes three in twenty cases solved."

"Seventeen more needed to cover the refusals." House follows.

"For the US only." Wright corrects. "One of your protege is Australian, he might return home."

"Yankees only?" House takes a guess.

"Not at all. A few world class diagnosticians trained here and practicing across the globe would do wonders to our reputation in other countries."

'Our meaning your, mine and the nation's.' House understands. He studies his hands. A second later he shakes his head adamantly. "I can't put them at risk."

Wright frowns, not in disapproval but thoughtful focus. "You fear the lawyer."

House nods, sadly staring at his feet.

"That explains the mob deal."

House looks up quickly, panicked.

"You have little faith in the legal system."

"I have little cause." He mumbles with defiance and a relic measure of shame.

"That must be corrected."

House stares, desperate hunger in his expression.

"Culprits sometimes slip through the net." Wright admits. "But properly directed, the police can be surprisingly effective. DEA has long-lasting ties with Interpol and the law enforcement of Latin American nations."

"I see." House whispers, hopeful yet cautious.

"Would you feel secure in taking fellows once Adler is apprehended?"

"I would but… Seventeen fellows." House looks overwhelmed. "Even if I doubled their number it would take a decade. And that's just for the US."

Wright nods slowly, accepting the argument yet already seeking a counter. "If I may suggest – you could take on much more than three people at a time. When you're ready for it of course."

"Advance diagnostic classes." House whispers, sounding daunted by the vision of a hundred unfamiliar youths, all with their sights set on him.

Wright takes on a thoughtful look. "The internet proved itself a useful teaching aid. It would give you access to an unlimited audience, anywhere in the world."

'And distance from them.' House realizes. "Next semester. Maybe." Another non-committed acceptance.

Wright nods in nonjudgmental understanding. "Both medals are on the table. Take your time to decide."

House returns the nod, his own subtext grateful, and begins fidgeting shortly after. "The lawyer…" He begins uncertain. "Does this mean that Cujo…"

"Ah yes." Wright smiles, reaching for something in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. The folded paper he pulls is thick, cream-white and subtly textured. "I believe the SPCA agent in Trenton is waiting for my autograph."

House accepts the paper and unfolds the hand-written pardon, utterly incredulous. "What do I have to do for this one?"

"Nothing." Wright's voice is even. "You trained the men who saved my life. Now I'm returning the favor."

"And the lawyer?"

"Is what we should have done already." He is certain. "Apologies for the delay."

House nods."How did Foreman pull this off?" He mumbles, raising the pardon. "I mean, we've saved a lot of lives but no one ever reciprocated with a return favor at a drop of a hat, no questions asked."

Wright smirks in approval at House's perceptiveness. "I asked him to omit something irrelevant from my file that could have caused a scandal were it to come out in public."

House whistles, cogs working immediately at the back of his mind. He recalls the man's medical file, examined weeks ago, and notes the one potentially scandalous point. "Aids test." He mumbles, wondering if the results were conveniently 'corrected.' But no. The ultimate diagnosis, and the subsequent successful treatment which confirmed it, was incompatible with that particular cover-up. "Must have been a false positive at first." He concludes, a smirk forming on his lips. "You must have used your shared history to snub his cynicism."

Wright shrugs casually. "He is a brother from the projects, coming on top despite the odds. I didn't have to point out our similarities." A moment slips by. "Frankly I was surprised when he didn't immediately ask for clemency for his incarcerated brother."

"They… have issues." House nigh whispers, catching himself before he lets slip Foreman's history. Not that Wright probably doesn't know about it already, he figures. Still, it doesn't have to come from him.

Another nonjudgmental nod before a smile graces Wright's polite, professional face, making it glow in a grandfatherly manner. "Anything else, Dr House?" He offers sincerely.

"No." House says automatically, already overwhelmed.

Wright rises to his feet. "It's been a pleasure, Dr House."

House blinks, aware that the surreal phase shift is over and reality will commence anew.

"Likewise, Mr President."

Wright accompanies House out, the security detail following them discreetly until they part ways in the lobby, after which Stacy joins him gain.

"How was it?" She asks with a pleased, proud smile.

House huffs. "I… have a lot of work to do." He smiles slightly. "Come on, let's get Cujo."


	67. Eye for an Eye

**Eye for an Eye**

House sits in a dark corner of an infirmary, his unfaltering stare fixed on a lithe, young man sleeping prone in the sole hospital bed under a glaring neon spotlight. Ira Adler, his tormentor, delivered as promised.

The man's hands are chained to the bed, every visible area of skin a patchwork of scrapes and bruises. His face shows a tension of pain even in unconsciousness, one eye swollen shut and one lip marred by a freshly scabbed split. Dark stubble covers his jaw, oily strands of brown hair falling messily over a scraped forehead. Lightly draped blanket rises and dips with outlines of a full set of restraints over a muscular physique.

Seeing past the discoloration of injuries, House traces every muscle of his exposed upper body, one not formed by use for strength or endurance, but meticulously sculptured in vanity.

"_Severe concussion. Resisting arrest. Wouldn't be surprised if he died from the injuries."_

An observation of the jail's physician, given in passing, flutters through his mind. In truth it's a badly veiled message, passed down from responsible big-shots, allowing him free rein over the prisoner's fate.

Slowly, House rises to his good foot and makes his way to the bedside in a slow beat of alternating clacks and thumps. Left-hand crutch leaned on the bed, he takes a syringe and vial from the first aid pack, filling one with the contents of the other singlehandedly. A precise stab in the neck delivers a dose of clear liquid before he rolls the morphine drip dry.

The captive wakes grunting in pain, his effort to roll over stopped by the leather snares. A slurry sound of surprise emerges from him, followed by an inarticulate guttural cry. The man tries out his tongue, finding it lax and useless. Frustrated, he yells wordless, nasal groans to the surrounding dark, punching at the bed with clenched fists in a futile effort to get attention, the bars rattling loud.

House observes the show in silence, seeing the man for an utter fool that will not last long in prison, abused or not. He endures the noise effortlessly, simply counting the shouts as seconds. The look on his face is boredom bereft of irritation. Even if he is above the guards' short fuse, the display is only so much energy wasted.

The man quiets shortly, giving up easily. Not survivor material at all.

"Five loosing traits in under five minutes." His hoarse voice fills the dark void beyond the pool of neon light.

Ira snaps his head to the whisper, anger blazing from hazel eyes over an undercurrent of utter lack of comprehension.

"Ten." H adds as he rises to one foot, crutches rattling ominously. "And I'm not gonna tell you which." He walks with slow deliberation to the restrained patient, just enough for his torso to show, but not the face, looming dangerously close over the former abuser whose limbs are stilled by budding fear. And he hasn't even done a thing. Pathetic.

Ira's big, attentive eyes twitch nervously over the stranger's torso in search of clues as to the situation, falling eventually on the circle of pink skin on one clutched hand.

House follows the man's eyes to his scar and recalls the cigar-but incident, wincing at the distant but vivid memory. A quiet kind of satisfaction overcomes him as realization about his identity overcomes Ira, badly snubbed surprise and fear following shortly to the man's expression.

"Boo." House utters emotionless.

Ira gulps awkwardly, repeatedly.

"You don't have to talk. I gave you a shot of paralytic in the Hypoglossal nerve, I think you'll have enough trouble keeping bile going down the right tube. And no one will care if you groan."

Ira swallows hard, Adam's apple moving oddly as if to confirm the warning.

House leaves the left crutch resting at the bed side and pulls two plastic-capped syringes from the blazer pocket. "Pain meds." He explains. "Immediate short term relief." One is turned closer to Adler before the other "...and long-lasting slow-release. See, the guards messed me up so bad I have to take each of these daily just so I wouldn't die of a cardiac. Now, which do you want? Long term...? " the syringe is held slightly higher up. "...or short term?"

Ira flashes his gaze between the two, eyes ablaze with need, hands itching to reach for both. A frustrated grunt comes out.

"Look at one and blink twice."

Ira keeps switching attention between them.

"One or none." The reminder is calmly detached, almost as if it means nothing to him.

Adler blinks at the short term one.

"You do know bones don't heal quickly, right?"

Ira makes no reply except another double blink.

"So are you a sissy or just dumb?"

Another blink.

"Right... You don't trust me? Well I'm gonna be a sport and give you what you really want anyway."

House plugs the long-term syringe to the man's IV and empties it slowly.

Adler starts heaving, a bewildered frown further marring his features.

"I forgot to tell you... the long term meds, they work by overloading pain receptors. That's why I need the other kind too. It will get worse before it gets better. Much worse."

Ira stares at him with madness, skin dewing up with sweat.

"You want this one?" House offers.

Ira nods with rapid urgency, tossing his focus between the needle and IV pole like some odd game of tenis.

House's eyes turn hard. "Beg for it."

Adler looks away defiant, stern expression affixed on his features, but it melts quickly to one of anguish from the backlash of that predictable major pitfall of resistance - tension aggravates pain. His fingers and toes curl and stretch, back and neck arching, twisting.

House watches with patience born of suffering as the man's eyes water and leak, furious blinks trying in vain to stop new tears from welling up. Despite having lived through the same, he feels no empathy whatsoever, his heart having taken leave for the time being, ice hard emptiness in his chest.

Ira looks at him pleadingly.

"Beg."

The man looks at him as if he were thick.

"Mouth it." House offers.

Adler obeys.

"You see..." House changes the syringes "…what you want... " He empties the other one. "... is rarely what you need."

Ira watches in fear but nothing happens, the moment of hope-driven endorphins passing, internal analgesia giving way to a new wave of heat.

House looks down on him with icicle eyes. "That's a cc of epidural." He elaborates. "Injected in the blood stream it causes chronic neuropathy."

Adler's eyes turn saucer-like

"Oh drop the face." House hisses venom. "I'm just giving you a taste of your own medicine." He strides out, leaving the man to his pathetic wails. Even as he door shuts, muffling the noise, the burst of vengeful glee drains from House. Not even the thought of the man's continued suffering does anything to fill the numb void in his heart.

The doctor walks up to House. "You got your justice?"

House nods, quiet and thoughtful, his eyes staring unfocused down the hall.

The man grins. "Feels good, right?"

He sighs heavily, his soul still a wreck. "Felt." Her corrects sadly.


End file.
